Page 4 of The Bodyguard

Angela shrugged with a sheepish laugh. “Now that I’ve said everything out loud, maybe I’m cured.” She crossed her fingers. “Maybe?”

Ibrahim studied Angela for an uncomfortably long moment. She didn’t feel as if he were waiting for another profound revelation from her, yet it felt like she was supposed to say more. Feel more. Experience a bigger, deeper revelation, and she didn’t have it in her. “I’m tapped, Ibrahim. I don’t have anything more to share.”

“No…” He stroked his chin. “But I do.”

She raised mental barriers and guarded herself for whatever he might share. But she wasn’t about to let him know her anxiety needled her. Angela faked a grin and beckoned. “Come on. Hit me with it. I can take it.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “When you put our therapeutic sessions like that, how can I resist?”

Angela laughed. “Come on.”

Ibrahim nodded but paused as though gathering his thoughts. “Your struggle isn’t with Tran Pham.”

“What?” After everything she’d just poured out, this was Ibrahim’s dramatic takeaway? “I’m sorry, but Psychology 101 students could figure out that I’m screwed up because of Pham.”

He held up his hand. “It’s not that simple, Angela. Pham listened to you. He provided for you, and while it was a definite perversion of the act, he cared for you, unlike your parents or boyfriend.That’swhere your burden lies. Not what Pham gave you but what you never received from your loved ones.”

CHAPTER TWO

Sawyer Cabot checked the time. Two minutes until Angela’s appointment would end. Despite what he assumed was discussed during that standing meeting, she would walk out, picture-perfect, as though she’d spent the day at the office instead of rehashing her nightmare past. Sawyer would escort her back to Titan headquarters, and his on-and-off job of keeping his eyes on Angela would be done.

A door to the small waiting room opened from the main hallway, and a woman entered, her gaze angled toward the patterned carpet. A dark gray burqa covered her head, draping over her shoulders and falling to the floor. Sawyer kept his eyes to himself, shifting his outstretched legs under his chair, and checked his watch again. One minute to go. He’d thought there had always been enough time between appointments for privacy’s sake.

The end of Angela’s session ticked by. The door didn’t open. If Angela was anything, it was on time. She ran a tight ship. Then again, therapy wasn’t exactly a conventional meeting. Sawyer trusted Ibrahim to watch the clock if Angela’s internal time management had gone off course.

Sawyer’s heel bounced. He watched and waited for Angela to walk out at any moment. Then reason caught up with instinct. They were at her therapist’s office. She hadn’t walked out of the appointment yet because something was happening back there. A breakthrough or an epiphany or whatever caused therapists to go beyond their scheduled time slots. This was a good thing. Sawyer wanted this for Angela.

His gaze shifted from the door to the other person in the waiting room. The woman nonchalantly paged through a magazine. Her oversized designer bag sat in the chair next toher. That bag probably cost more than his first car. He wouldn’t put it on the floor either.

Sawyer checked his watch. Angela should have exited by now. Ibrahim never ran long. Perhaps something was wrong. He knew the office layout. There was another way into Ibrahim’s office. The entrance opened into a private hallway with the therapist’s private office, a file room, and a locked egress point to the public hallway. He knew the blueprints of this floor like the back of his hand. Not that Sawyer had been worried. Memorizing the layout was just part of the job.

Ibrahim had been vetted. He was safe. The office was safe. No one could get in and or out without security-provided access. Still, Sawyer checked his watch. His gaze pivoted from the door Angela would exit to the door that led to the hall and elevators. He glanced at the woman with the handbag and wondered how much time Ibrahim built between appointments. It had never been an issue before.

Then again, maybe she wasn’t a client. A sales rep, maybe? Unscheduled drop-in? Unsettled energy corkscrewed up his back. Sawyer tapped his heel. Would interrupting Angela’s session cross the line? Ibrahim had a panic button. It hadn’t been activated.

Sawyer pushed out of his chair. He paced the tight space. The woman’s gaze followed him momentarily, then she settled her bag closer and returned to her magazine.

He checked his watch. Three minutes late. Something was wrong. Sawyer approached the door—but pulled back. Nothing was wrong on the other side. Even if somethingwaswrong, Titan had systems to notify the world if Sawyer had to burst through the door. The likeliest situation was what…? Angela was having some deep therapeutic moments that Ibrahim didn’t want to interrupt. Or, even more likely, they’d lost track of time.Perhaps Ibrahim’s timer or clock hadn’t notified him of the session’s end.

The door handle twisted with a quiet metallic click, and the tenseness lodged in Sawyer’s chest released. He turned toward the voices coming through the cracked doorway. Angela, always polite, thanked Ibrahim for his time. Ibrahim, always quiet, thanked Angela for her hard work in their session.

Behind Sawyer, he sensed the waiting woman now stood. The hairs at the nape of his neck stood as well. A patient wouldn’t stand for their appointment before they were greeted. They wouldn’t approach before a patient from an earlier appointment had stepped through the threshold.

Sawyer turned.

The door that separated Angela and Ibrahim from the waiting room opened wide, and a rush of cool air kissed his neck.

“I’ll see you next week,” Ibrahim said.

The other woman moved. She was a blur of a burqa with a pistol in hand.

Sawyer reached for the door behind him. “Get back.”

“What—” Angela called.

The heavy door slammed amidst Angela’s cries. Sawyer lunged for the other woman. Her pistol-wielding hand jerked hard. Gunfire popped. Sawyer wasn’t hit. He wasn’t the target. Only a door separated this woman from Angela.

Sawyer attacked as the woman rebounded. Dark fabric flowed like a curtain of distraction. His mind registered the weapon. Compact. Self-loading. It might’ve been a Russian PSM, made for Soviet officials, with a history for KGB assassins. He’d never seen one before and couldn’t see it now. Blindly, he wrestled with the shooter. Her build was slight, but she was strong. Trained. They hit the floor. Gunfire popped again and again; he wasn’t the target.

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