Page 23 of Quiet Protector
Fuck!“All right. I guess that’s confirmation enough. Can you forward me the details?”
“I thought your service was shit?”
I groan. “It is, but I’m sure it’s capable of downloading an email.”
“If it’s not, stand on your head and stick out your tongue. Perhaps the electrodes in your spit will improve the signal.”
Even knowing everything she’s saying is false, I can’t help but ask, “What does standing on my head have to do with anything?”
“I’ve had a shit day. I need a laugh.” My suspicion grows tenfold when Phillipa mumbles, “For a man with basically no ass, you certainly know how to fill in a pair of pants.”
All sense of normality is lost when I notice the tiniest speck of red shining from the top of my laptop monitor. “You’re spying on me. What if I were getting dressed?”
“I can only dream. Night, BJ.” She disconnects our call before half of my growl rolls up my chest. I’m certain she still heard it, though, because not only is a red light still beaming from my laptop, the peaks and troughs of my microphone graph are rising and falling.
Seconds after I close down Phillipa’s live feed of my room, my laptop dings, announcing I have a new email. Once again, prioritizing Melody above anything else, I print out Phillipa’s email before scrolling to the one my private investigator sent me this morning. Although his dot-formatted update includes the incident Phillipa filled me in on, just like Phillipa, he’s lost as to what caused Melody to flee her office building the way she did. He mentioned she was red-faced and on the verge of crying, but silent, which isn’t surprising considering she can’t talk.
I sink low in my chair as I consider what to do. I could FaceTime Melody to make sure she’s okay, but even Phillipa’s confirmation that my ass fills in my trousers well doesn’t have me convinced we wouldn’t spend a majority of our conversation endeavoring to improve our connection. I could email her, but that feels impersonal, not to mention the fact it’s the weekend, and I only have her work email. So, instead, I text her.
It’s a basic,I hope you are okay. Buzz me if you need metext, but it lightens the load on my shoulders enough to shift my focus elsewhere for a second. It isn’t to Isabelle or the fact Alex is more scrupulous than first perceived, it’s to Grayson, and the vanishing act he’s been conducting the past few weeks.
“Come on, Grayson, pick up,” I mutter through the long shrill of my unanswered call.
Just when I think my call is about to be sent to his voicemail for the fourth time, it connects. “Hello?” I say down the line, stunned by the silence. Usually, you’ve got to grapple to issue a greeting before Grayson. “Grayson, are you there?”
I squash my phone in close to my ear when a faint voice whispers, “Grayson isn’t here.” It isn’t the voice of a child, but it’s weak and timid. “I haven’t seen him in days.”
“Katie?” I don’t know what compelled me to say that, but I’m glad I couldn’t hold back when the female on the other end of the line gasps in a shocked breath. “It’s you, isn’t it?” When she rushes out that she has to go, I breathe out even faster, “Is Grayson okay? That’s all I need to know. You don’t need to tell me anything else.”
With silence teeming between us, nothing but the sounds of her tiny breaths resonate down the line for the next several seconds. They fill me with horrid thoughts that only clear when she mutters, “He’s okay, but he needs to go. Kirill isn’t happy.”
“What do you mean? Why isn’t Kirill happy—” My interrogation ends early when the creak of a door is quickly chased by a thick Russian voice. I can’t hear exactly what the person says since Katie has the microphone muffled before a squeak pops from Katie’s mouth, then our calls ends. I don’t know if Katie disconnected it or if spotty service is responsible. Whatever the reason, I dial Grayson’s number on repeat for the next eight minutes, only stopping when the cruel punches of my thumb on the screen has me accidentally connecting to an incoming call.
Since it’s from an unknown number, I almost hang-up. Mercifully, Grayson’s gravelly voice sounds down the line before I do. “Miss me, punk? Sorry I’ve been slack. I forgot how tiring wading through shit was.”
“What the fuck, Grayson? You almost gave me a heart attack.”
He laughs, having no clue I’m being truthful. I am on the verge of a coronary failure.
I have a million questions to ask, and even more scorns to deliver, but I lose the chance when Grayson says, “Kirill is on the move. Caught sight of a flight manifest in his office when I was running errands. He’s heading to New York. The plane only has eight seats, so I don’t see a war starting any time soon. Thought you’d be interested, though, considering I saw tickets for your dad’s gig in the same pile of paperwork.”
“What gig?”
“Hold up.” I hear papers shuffle before he adds, “The Serena Scott Foundation. Your mom boards it, but from what I can see, your dad uses part of the funds to fatten up his campaign endeavors.”
Is it wrong I’m not surprised to hear my dad rips off charity organizations? You can’t do the devil’s work if you’re not willing to walk in his shoes.
“Is that why you gave Katie your cell? ‘Cause Kirill is traveling light?”
“Uh-huh. Kirill’s team constantly scans for bugs. I don’t need to plant one on Katie if she’s willing to cart my cell phone with her. I just need to trace my missing device on my laptop.”
If we were more work acquittances than friends, I would have mistaken the content in his voice for cockiness. “You’ve gained Katie’s trust?”
Grayson’s agreeing hum this time around is ten times more confident than his earlier one. “She’s not gone yet, BJ. I can see the good in her eyes.” Belief Katie is too far down the rabbit hole to be saved is the Bureau’s main reason for treading lightly with her case. Stockholm syndrome usually kicks in within weeks. Katie has been with Kirill for seven years. A loss is anticipated, although Grayson will never believe that. “Hold up. Go back. How do you know Katie has my phone?”
“She answered my call. Said you need to go because Kirill isn’t happy.”
“She answered your call?” When I murmur in agreement, he swears. “Kirill has eyes on Katie everywhere. If she talked to you on the phone, that means Kirill knows what she said, for how long she said it, and exactly how she said it.” He curses another three times in a row before he pushes out, “I’ve got to go.”
