Page 26 of Take Hold of Me

She smiles at me and closes her eyes. I watch as her breathing drifts off into slumber. Even though I’m exhausted from several poor nights’ rest, I know better than to try to sleep. I can’t risk a nightmare—or worse—at thirty-thousand feet. Besides, I can’t simply dismiss her hair-raising story about Wade Block. Tugging on the brim of my cap, I open the sci-fi book I picked up at the airport and start reading.

The words blur.

Jared’s lifeless body is sprawled by the back entrance to a house on fire. Roberto and I exchange a determined glance and race past him into the burning building. Clearing the first floor, we climb up to the second. Smoke clouds my vision as a gunshot rings out. I follow Roberto to the threshold, when a second gunshot fires and he crumples at my feet. Do not look down. Do not look down.

I enter a room in total chaos. Rose stands off to the side, a handcuff dangling from her wrist. Unharmed. Cole tackles a woman holding the gun, and she hits the floor. Hard. My eyes don’t leave her prone form, even as Rose begs us to leave the room.

The woman comes to and points her gun at my clients.

She killed my partners. She’s trying to kill the people I am responsible for. I’m their only hope of survival. Everything rests on me. I may not be a Marine, but I can protect them. I will keep them safe.

Suddenly Cole and Rose disappear, and Three—young and vibrant and dynamic—is in the assassin’s sights.

This ends now. I aim my gun directly at her heart. And squeeze the trigger. She collapses on her back, the gun falling from her hand with a thud.

Inanimate eyes look directly into my soul. And find. Nothing.

I startle awake.

Turning my head on the seat’s headrest, other passengers are either sleeping or otherwise ignoring me and my heavy breathing. Good. I ask the flight attendant for another soda and begin the painstaking task of putting the nightmare away. Again.

A couple of hours later, back in control after watching back-to-back episodes of “Ninja Heroes” on the in-flight entertainment, I touch Emilie’s cheek. She’s all soft and sweet and innocent wrapped in the blanket. A sleepy voice with a French accent asks, “Are we there yet?”

“The pilot announced that we’re landing in about thirty minutes,” I respond, pitching my voice low.

Her sleepy smile zings at my heart. I ignore the sensation and go over protocols for the airport and getting to the hotel while she prepares for landing. Of course, her Agency tipped off the paparazzi that she’s on this flight. After all, she needs to maintain a high profile. With me as her muscle.

By the time we taxi to the gate, Emilie looks as if she just walked off the runway rather than a sixteen-hour flight. I grab our luggage from the overhead bins and we make our way through the airport, side-by-side.

The airport is crammed with people. My eyes roam over the crowds, not finding anyone who’s giving off warning signals. Once through customs, I prepare us both for showtime. “Ready to meet the Brazilian cameras?”

“Oui. They are a bit pushy but very nice.”

I remind myself that she’s done this before, several times. All without me. And never with an incident. I’m here for show. I slip my baseball cap off and tuck it into my backpack, exchanging it for a pair of sunglasses. It’s easier to scan the crowd when people can’t see where I’m looking.

Beside me, Emilie stops. “The cameras are going to want to know who the model is on my arm,” she giggles, her eyes dancing.

I scoff and roll my eyes. “They’re around the corner. Just keep walking, okay.” Let’s get this over with.

Her posture straightens and she forces her cheeks to inflate. Her eyes lose the mischievous glint of only a second ago. “I am ready.”

After we turn the corner, a group of paparazzi start screaming for Emilie’s attention. She appears calm and her steps never falter. More like she glides through the throngs. Next to her, my eyes never stop assessing. My heart pumps faster and faster while my mouth gets drier.

Someone reaches out. I block their arm. They’re holding a poster and a Sharpie. Fuuuuck. It’s just a fan.

Next to me, Emilie stops and takes the pen. After signing the picture, she smiles for a selfie and we continue moving forward. Get a grip, man. My heart pounds faster the longer we’re in this unrestricted area, even with the airline’s rep walking beside us.

Paparazzi blind us with their cameras. We press forward toward the exit, where our limo awaits. One hundred yards. At least one hundred people, with more joining every second. My vision tunnels to the door and the obstacles of us getting there.

Emilie stops again and says some words to the paparazzi in Portuguese. I can barely speak English, and right now, not even that.

She poses for photos.

Okay, that’s enough. My hand on her arm, I push ahead. Just fifty more feet.

That dark-haired guy to my left. Is he looking at my client funny? A woman grabs his arm and his attention is diverted. What about the skinny guy up ahead? Oh God, get us out of here.

Twenty more feet. Where are all these people coming from?

Christ, I’m having a veritable panic attack. The red-headed man in LA pops into my head. How can I keep my client safe if I’m seeing threats where none exist? It must be that fucking nightmare from the plane. Get a grip, man.Now.

Five more feet and the automatic doors open. A man wearing the universal chauffer’s cap and holding up a sign marked “Price Agency” stands at the curb. We can get to him. And then we’re out of here. I swallow, yet no saliva’s in my mouth.

A few more steps and we’re at the limo. Before she climbs in, Emilie turns and waves to her fans. So many of them. Too many. I usher her inside and slam the door to her safety.

Rubbing my clammy hands on my thighs, I take a deep breath and join the driver in the front seat. Exhaling whatever air is in my lungs, I close my eyes when we pull into the nighttime Rio traffic.

Safe. We’re safe.

At least for now.

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