Page 16 of The Hardest Hit
“What’s his name?”
“Hername, and go fuck yourself. Camera!”
“Are you going to go away and leave us alone?”
“I have a right to be here!” Harding’s face blazed red in fury.
“And I have a right to punch you in the face.”
“That’s a threat. I can call the cops!” Harding was angry, but he had yet to even reach for his phone. Not only was that a secondary camera that he could be using to film, but if he were truly serious about the cops, he’d have it in his hand. Either Harding wasn’t that scared or he wasn’t anxious to call the police.
“Word of advice: don’t make threats you’re not going to follow through on,” said Jackson. “It’s a principle I try to live by.”
Harding froze and licked his lips. “Yeah, OK, give me back the camera and I’ll leave.”
“Sure,” said Jackson, baring his teeth in what might have passed for a smile. He tossed the camera back to the man, who scrabbled and nearly dropped the camera again, but managed to keep it off the ground.
“Fucking Deverauxes! You’re all assholes!” yelled Harding as Jackson walked back toward the restaurant. Jackson didn’t turn around but held up one middle finger. On the other side of the glass, Dominique smiled and waved. Harding snapped one last angry photo, before running off.
“Funny,” said Dominique as he sat down. “You’re going to be lucky if he doesn’t sue for assault.”
“I did not touch him or damage his equipment. I think I’m good.” He pulled out his phone and texted a picture of Harding’s business card to Pete. Peter Schalding was Eleanor’s private investigator. He’d been instrumental in helping Jackson acclimate to the security role. The reply pinged through moments later.
Who’s this douchebag?
Don’t know. Find out.
On it.
“Are we focusing on me yet?” asked Dominique.
“Yes,” said Jackson, smiling. “We are.”
But Dominique frowned. “Was that photographer something I need to worry about?”
“Not at the moment,” said Jackson. “Maybe just have Max drive you to work for the next few days.”
“He usually does anyway,” said Dominique, still frowning. Max was Dominique’s six-foot-five, US Marshal boyfriend. Jackson liked Max, but he sometimes wondered how Dominique squared her periodic desires to beat mercenaries with bats with dating a total do-gooder.
The waiter appeared and placed their food down on the table and seemed disgusted when Jackson asked for ketchup. Dominique waited until the ketchup was in place and the waiter had left before speaking again.
“What’s going on? You’re…” She waved a hand at him open-palmed as if feeling his aura. “Unhappy.”
“Eleanor’s speech,” said Jackson. “It touched a nerve. She’s received about fifty letters and quadruple that in emails and tweets all telling her to stop betraying the white race.”
“Ugh,” said Dominique, sitting back in her chair, disgust on her face.
“Those are the nice ones,” said Jackson. “The others range from telling her that she should be raped to death to threatening all of you.”
“It’s Absolex all over again.”
“Pretty much,” said Jackson. “And we all know how well that went.”
“I can see why you’re tense.”
“You can see why I… Nika!” said Jackson, laughing. “You’re the one that ended up with bullet holes in your wall. Why aren’t you tense?”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll take care of it. Oh, you can take the Evan look off your face. Honestly, it’s no wonder everyone thinks you’re brothers. I know that I sound all devil-may-care, but what I mean is that having you and Max around lowers my stress level about threats considerably. I do not mean to imply that I am not aware of your efforts or that they are not appreciated. And of course, I’ll take all the precautions you recommend.”
