Page 51 of The Bodyguard

Was she interested in Sawyer?

Was Sawyer concerned? Titan? Or had her mother come up with this scheme to understand why Angela hadn’t fallen in line with the campaign plans? That was the only answer thatmade sense. Heat rippled from her neck into her cheeks. This interrogation had been bought and paid for by her mother.

John tossed his pen onto the table. “What about this makes you uncomfortable?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Everyone who goes into the field needs a risk assessment.”

She knew but had to ask, “Who sent you?”

“We already covered that your mother asked me to visit you.”

Her nostrils flared.

“Angela, what makes you uncomfortable with this discussion?” he asked again. “Given your work at Titan for the last few years, my line of questioning is normal operating procedure.”

“This is not how they’re done.” Her molars gnashed. “Not to mention, they’re never done surreptitiously.”

“I apologize if it came off that way,” he said casually, studying her.

This back-and-forth, she realized, was part of his psych evaluation also. “You want to know what makes me uncomfortable?” she scoffed. “Everything.”

“That’s a throwaway answer. Give yourself a second and see if you have a different answer.”

God, this man infuriated her. “Don’t talk to me like I’m a toddler.”

“I’m aggravating you,” he suggested.

“Yeah, not to be rude, but—”

“Dig into that, Angela. Why not be rude? You’re safe. You have loved ones. A job that you enjoy and protects you—”

She squared her shoulders. The lack of control in this pointless conversation was enough to unravel her, but wasn’t that what John Patterson was looking for? What her mother wanted? Absolutely. “We’re done.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Mylene Hathaway stared at the blank computer screen like it was a blank canvas. In her time under Tran Pham's thumb, she had learned to do magic with the dance of keystrokes and lines of code. Sometimes, she daydreamed of posting on social media or even anonymously on message boards, asking for help. She could tell the truth and explain why she lived as a prisoner in this cute little house. Then again, why would she do that? She had nothing to gain from freedom, so she stayed where she was, doing as instructed.

Each day, Mylene followed the same routine. She woke up in the same little bedroom with bare walls and a single chest of drawers, pulled the worn duvet over her tiny thin twin bed, ate her breakfast of plain Greek yogurt, granola, and honey, worked on her tedious assignments from Pham's organization, ate a midday meal at which her creativity was limited to lunch meats and various breads, continued working on her assignments, prepared dinners that let her lose herself in the chopping and cooking, and, once again, worked on her assignments.

If she faltered or in any way deviated from her standard work output, Pham's people would take away her privileges—fresh groceries and full-bodied coffee—and without those, life was merely a continual task list, broken only by dreamless sleep.

She'd hoped that with Tran Pham imprisoned, life would change. It hadn't. She'd hoped that with him behind bars, she might walk away. She couldn't.

Her little beach house had a shabby picket fence instead of razor wire. The building wasn't much to look at from the outside; it was slightly run down but not jarringly out of place for the neighborhood. The grass, dominated by weeds, was always cut before it became a nuisance, and, she reasoned, the lack of a manicured lawn was a native ecosystem and goodfor the bees. That wouldn't exist if Pham kept her elsewhere. Dandelions pocked the sidewalk cracks. Leggy purple and white weed flowers spotted the yard. She supposed it was nice, though she didn't look out her windows and never dared to step out her front door. The outside world was almost as terrible to look at as were the walls inside her house.

Her little prison of a home offered safety so long as she kept her eyes pinned to the ground when she was outside the kitchen, her office, or her bedroom. She wasn't a flight risk. Pham didn't require bars or guards. Their weapons were far more powerful: fear and shame.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Sawyer closed the hardcover and ran his thumb along the worn fabric and title imprinted along the book’s spine. He rarely visited the administrative arm of Titan’s executive office suite unless he was visiting Angela’s office. Most often, the team met in the war room or the hotel’s lobby. Until today, Sawyer had never sat in the formal area that greeted the bigwigs and head honchos who hired Titan for covert operations worldwide.

Across from him, Amanda Carter waited, legs kicked out across the cushions of an uncomfortable-looking couch, her laptop resting on her thighs. She didn’t appear to be working. At least she was less pale than the last time Sawyer saw her.

Amanda raised her gaze from the screen and chewed on her bottom lip. “What do you make of the Fed?”

He turned the book over and over again. “I don’t like unplanned visits.”

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