Page 12 of The Bodyguard

“It’s not supposed to.” He motioned to the open door. “Inside. Now.”

She didn’t argue and that unsettled him more than if she had.

She climbed in with practiced grace, settling into the passenger seat with a soft sigh, the hem of her cream pencil skirt brushing just above her knees. It didn’t escape his notice—or his restraint. He shut the door and circled around, scanning the street one more time before sliding in behind the wheel.

Maya and a junior staffer followed in the campaign SUV two car lengths behind, per Cerberus protocol.

As Mitch pulled out into traffic, his voice was steady. “We cleared today’s route twice. No press knows you’re en route. Windows stay closed. If we’re stopped for any reason, you let me speak. Understood?”

She gave him a sidelong look. “You say that like I’ve ever let anyone speak for me.”

“I’m not just anyone.”

“Don’t I know it.”

He caught the edge in her voice—and something else beneath it. Awareness. That same damn spark from last night, alive and humming beneath the surface.

They didn’t speak again until they arrived at her campaign headquarters. The Cerberus field team had already swept the small office building that served as the heart of her operation. Nothing fancy—just exposed brick, worn floors, and a whole lot of people who believed in her enough to work long hours for little to no pay.

Mitch parked in the alley, in the shadow of a loading dock. He checked the building’s rear exit, then opened her door from the outside.

“Don’t wander,” he said as she stepped down.

She didn’t even pretend to hide her sarcasm. “God forbid I get near a vending machine without your tactical blessing.”

Mitch followed her in, his steps silent, his presence looming.

People noticed. Campaign staffers froze mid-task, half-smiles flickering across their faces as they took in the man in black, following their candidate like a second shadow. Mitch ignored them. He swept the room visually, noted the unsecured windows, the single, unguarded entrance, the total lack of any meaningful perimeter protection.

Someone coughed. Another whispered, “Is that him?”

Andi kept walking like she didn’t hear them.

“You’re drawing attention,” she muttered under her breath as they moved toward her office.

“So are you,” he replied, “from the wrong people.”

“Paranoia doesn’t make you right, Langdon.”

“No,” he said. “But keeping you alive does.”

She gave him one of those sideways glances again—sharp, assessing.

“Do you always talk in survival slogans, or is that just for the people who annoy you?”

“I don’t find you annoying... yet.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“Not yet.”

They reached her office—bare walls, a messy desk, a whiteboard covered in campaign timelines and red circles where polling dipped dangerously close to Wexler’s name.

As she sat behind her desk and started fielding questions from Maya and her team, Mitch posted himself near the door. Quiet. Watchful. The shadow no one wanted to notice but couldn’t ignore.

He watched the way Andi worked—how she refocused after the crash, the threats, the debate ambush. She spoke clearly, handled pushback with ease, took notes and handed out action items like a general directing a war campaign, and in a way, she was.

But when a staffer handed her a water bottle, and she flinched slightly while twisting the cap—favoring her left side—Mitch stepped forward.

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