Page 15 of The Hardest Hit
“Aren’t they over us? Why the sudden interest?”
“Eleanor, I think. That diversity and inclusion speech on Monday set off a little shit storm. The Huffington Post picked up a clip and so did some sort of positive thinking page with like a million followers.”
“Ooh! I knew that one had promise. Excellent!” Dominique was beaming, and Jackson shook his head. In many ways, she and Jackson had opposite goals. Dominique had gone into marketing, which meant that Eleanor promptly expected her to assist in the PR for the seemingly never-ending Eleanor Deveraux for Senator campaign. Whenever Dominique excelled, Jackson’s job as head of family security got a lot harder.
“I’m going to pretend to go to the bathroom then head out the back and see if I can roust him.”
“Is that a good idea?”
“No clue, but it sounds like fun.”
“Suit yourself,” she said, laughing. “Just don’t make Aiden get you out of jail again.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He ducked out the back of the restaurant and worked his way around the block to get in position behind the photographer, who was leaning with a faux-casual attitude against a car parked across the street from the restaurant. Dominique adjusted to a modelesque pose and flipped her hair, probably attempting to look as photogenic as possible and keep the attention on her.
Jackson walked closer. The photographer was intent on Dominique and didn’t notice him. Apparently, situational awareness really was something that needed teaching.
“Hi,” said Jackson directly into the man’s ear. The photographer, yelped, jumped, and dropped his camera, then fumbled with panicked hands, trying to catch it. Jackson grabbed the camera out of the air and began to look at the photos. The photographer reached for the camera with angry, wild hand gestures. Jackson merely pivoted away.
“Give it back!” the photographer demanded, a note of panic in his voice.
“What? This? You want this?” asked Jackson, swiveling away from his grasping hands. It was so childish, but he couldn’t stop himself. The pictures were nothing special. A couple of shots of the restaurant. Jackson arriving. Dominique getting out of the cab. Dominique had selected the place and Jackson had made the reservation. He suspected someone must have tipped off the cameraman. He flipped back further to see who else was on the hitlist and felt a flutter of fear as he saw Aiden going into work, and then, even earlier, Evan, coming off the train.
“Give it back to me or I’m calling the cops!”
Jackson took another look at the photographer. He was a medium height with a slight build. The clothes were non-descript: puffer jacket, jeans, and sneakers, ball cap pulled down low on his face. Jackson reached out and knocked the hat off.
“Hey!” The man dove for his hat, pulling it out of a motor-oil scummed puddle. He had brown hair, brown eyes, nothing particularly remarkable about him. Perfect for his job, in other words.
“Why are you following my family?”
“It’s the gig, man,” said the photographer, shaking off his hat. “It’s not personal. Give me back my camera!”
“What’s your name?”
“I’m not telling you that!”
“Who do you work for?”
“I’m not telling you that either!”
“Then I’m keeping the camera.”
“Fine,” said the man, reaching into his pocket. Jackson tensed, his fingers curling around the camera. “Here. Happy?” He shoved a business card at Jackson. Jackson took it.
Intelligencer Magazine
Monroe Harding
“Intelligencer? I’ve never heard of it.”
“That’s not my fault,” said Harding. “Give me back my camera.”
“Who sent you?”
“My editor.”
