Page 7 of Close Protection

A new day. Whatever it brought, she would face it clear-eyed and focused.

She had done what she needed to do: found a moment of escape, a night to clearher head before diving into the chaos that awaited. The woman upstairs would remain a pleasant memory, nothing more. By this time tomorrow, Ivy would be ensconced in whatever safe house the Phoenix Ridge PD had arranged, surrounded by officers whose job it was to keep her alive until she could testify.

Her phone buzzed—a text from her contact at the district attorney's office, confirming her pickup time for later that morning.

Reality, right on schedule.

Ivy sipped her coffee and watched the waves crash against the cliffs below. They continued their relentless rhythm, a reminder that some forces couldn't be stopped once set in motion.

She had set her own force in motion when she'd decided to expose the Seraphim Syndicate's crimes. There was no turning back now, no matter how tempting the distractions might be.

The nameless woman from last night would wake alone in room 1247, finding no trace of Ivy beyond rumpled sheets and the lingering scent of her perfume. It was betterthat way. By the time she'd dressed and left, Ivy would be in a different room entirely, preparing for the chaotic days ahead.

Ivy didn't look back as she walked along the terrace toward the private beach access. She didn't need to. She'd gotten exactly what she came for: one night of freedom before the walls closed in.

It was enough. It had to be.

2

JULIA

Julia woke to silence.

For a moment, she lay perfectly still, assessing her surroundings without opening her eyes—a habit formed over years of military training and police work. Her own bed. Her own apartment. The subtle scent of her detergent on the sheets.

Alone.

She opened her eyes. Morning light filtered through the blinds she'd forgotten to close, casting slatted shadows across her bedroom. The space beside her was empty, the sheets cool to the touch. No indentation on the pillow, no lingering warmth. If not forthe faint trace of unfamiliar perfume and the pleasant ache in her muscles, she might have believed she'd dreamed the woman from the hotel.

Relief tangled with an unexpected thread of disappointment. Relief won.

Julia swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, rolling her shoulders to work out the stiffness. The digital clock on her nightstand showed 7:42 a.m. She'd slept later than usual, a rarity that left her feeling slightly off-kilter. She remembered waking alone in the hotel and getting an uber home about 5am.

She padded to the bathroom, studiously avoiding her reflection until she'd splashed cold water on her face three times.

When she finally looked up, familiar eyes stared back: dark brown, alert despite the early hour, with the same watchful edge they always carried. Her hair was tousled from sleep, the sharp lines of her undercut softened. She ran her fingers through it, ordering it with practiced movements.

As she brushed her teeth, her mind sifted methodically through the previous night. The woman at the hotel—honey-blondehair, clever eyes, a body made for sin and a wry smile that hinted at secrets. No name exchanged, by mutual agreement. A welcome release after weeks of tension.

And now, the clean break she preferred. Perfect.

So why did her apartment feel emptier than usual?

Julia dismissed the thought and stepped into the shower, turning the water to just shy of scalding. She stood under the spray, letting it sluice over her shoulders and down her back, washing away the lingering sensations of unfamiliar hands. She traced the bullet scar on her side absently—an old habit when thinking through a problem. But there was no problem here. One night. No complications. Exactly as intended.

She shut off the water with a decisive twist and reached for a towel.

Her morning routine unfolded with military precision. Coffee brewed while she dressed in running clothes. One cup, black, standing at the kitchen counter. Then out the door 2 hours later than usual, feet hitting the pavement in a steady rhythmical run as she headed for the coastal trail thatwound along Phoenix Ridge's dramatic cliffs.

The early morning air carried the taste of salt and the promise of another clear day. Julia pushed her pace, focusing on the burn in her lungs rather than the fragmentary images that kept surfacing: a pale throat arching under her lips, elegant fingers threading through her hair, a whispered "please" that had nearly undone her.

Five miles later, she circled back to her apartment, sweat cooling on her skin in the morning breeze. The historic firehouse that had been converted into apartments stood solid and reassuring against the brightening sky, its red brick warm in the early light. Julia's unit occupied the second floor, with high ceilings and windows that overlooked both the street and the back alley—tactical considerations that had sold her on the place even before she'd fallen for its character.

She showered again, this time efficiently, and dressed in her work clothes: dark slacks, white button-down, shoulder holster holding her Glock 19. The familiar weight of the gun settled her. She added her badge on its chain around her neck and tucked itbeneath her shirt—a habit from undercover days she'd never broken.

In the kitchen, she prepared a second cup of coffee, this one to go in a travel mug. Her phone buzzed on the counter as she was screwing on the lid.

Police Chief Diana Marten. Her boss rarely called this early unless something significant had broken.

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