Jackal of All Trades (The Wild Operatives: MacArthur Security Book 1) Read online

  Jackal of All Trades

  Vivienne Savage

  Jackal of All Trades

  By Vivienne Savage

  All material contained herein is Copyright © Vivienne Savage 2020. All rights reserved.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your preferred ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  Edited by Theresa Schultz

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Other Books by Vivienne

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Nadir

  The Starbucks line wrapped all the way to the door and out onto the sidewalk, but I endured it anyway to fetch my client’s favorite, an Iced Caramel Cloud Macchiato. My dedication to the job had nothing to do with the way she turned those big brown eyes on me, or how her dimpled cheeks lit my soul full of joy.

  All right. It did. But I also needed to mainline caffeine if I was going to make it through the rest of the shift. Each of us worked twelve hours off and on, one of us on duty while the other slept or enjoyed their slice of twelve-hour freedom. Not that I had much to enjoy.

  Sometimes I wondered if I did something wrong in a previous incarnation to deserve the current state of my love life. Despite all the time that passed since my retirement from the U.S. Marines, I spent most of my free time away from work sitting at home on the couch with a book.

  My friends suggested dating to pass the time and recommended a load of online sites. Juni even wrote my Tinder profile, claiming women loved a witty guy with a sense of humor.

  No good. Tinder, Match.com, Grindr—all that shit was useless to me. I swiped and I matched and I connected with dozens of people. Sometimes we went out on a date, but usually I got ghosted.

  Not a spark. Not an ounce of connection.

  The shit was hopeless.

  A month ago for New Year’s Eve, an acquaintance set me up on a blind date that ended in failure when we returned to her place, and her on-again/off-again boyfriend was waiting on the couch in the dark for her. I was ready to beat the dude’s ass, but she flew into his arms. Later, my pal admitted that he’d hoped spending time with me would be enough to deter the woman from going back to her creepy ex.

  Guess not.

  Two people exited the Starbucks, drinks and brown sacks in hand. The line moved at last, allowing me to enter off the sidewalk.

  Two steps closer. Literally.

  Certain it would be a while before I made it to the front of the line, I slid my phone off the clip attached to my belt and checked into my personal e-mail account. The amount of confidential client data filtering into the inbox dedicated to my career meant I held off on reading those until I was in a secure location without nosy assholes standing shoulder to shoulder with me for burnt coffee beans.

  Something about the addictive quality of those burnt coffee beans made me suspect the baristas mixed cocaine into the cream. It was a habit I couldn’t quit.

  A group of businessmen in suits stood in front of me, then two cops squeezed in when the line shrank a little more. I eased toward the front, absorbed in a group text conversation between my closest friends.

  Ian, our leader, our closest pal, and the guy who signed my paychecks, was becoming a father for the first time. Biologically, that is. He had one hell of an awesome little girl through marriage, but the pregnancy of a mate was an extra special occasion for shifters. What we craved more than a connection with a forever mate was to spread our genes and procreate.

  Our female friends planned to throw a baby shower for Leigh, since she’d missed out on the opportunity while pregnant with her older daughter. This time around, all the ladies wanted to spoil her rotten.

  The text messages I’d missed while briskly walking downstairs from their residential building invited me to join the women, because I’d somehow been relegated to the position of Gay Friend.

  First of all, I wasn’t gay. I viewed life through an equal opportunity sort of lens that meant no one was off limits. That should have given me twice the dating pool, but the sad truth was I’d merely experienced twice the dating failure.

  Me: I’m not even gay. Juni is the official Gay Friend.

  Sasha: I told Leigh that, but she says your sense of style meets our stereotype quota.

  Me: Fine. I’ll be there. Add it to my calendar, otherwise I’ll fuck off and forget.

  That was a damn lie. I’d never forget Leigh’s baby shower.

  Sasha: Also, why are you capitalizing Gay Friend?

  Me: Visit TV Tropes to look it up, then hit me back in six hours.

  Eventually, I reached the front of the coffee line and rattled off three orders. Soon as I had our drinks, I hauled ass back to the apartment.

  The doorman held the door wide. “Morning, Mr. Zaman.”

  “Morning, Harry. Thanks.”

  When I passed the concierge desk, Randy waved too. The tiny blond guy had to be the least intimidating fellow to ever work hospitality in a luxury condo building. His glasses weighed more than he did. At least Harry had the muscles to back someone up in a jam, and military experience in his youth. Nowadays, the graying old vet enjoyed a simple job opening and shutting the door for residents.

  “Nadir!” called the one member of the building’s administrative staff I’d hoped to avoid during my coffee run. Amanda Pierce was special, the kind of inescapable pain in the ass who seemed to manifest as if she had wizard’s teleportation powers whenever I entered the lobby. “How are you?”

  “Fine,” I sighed. “What can I do for you, Ms. Pierce?”

  The blonde’s pleasant smile indicated she didn’t hear the resignation in my voice. Or she didn’t care. I didn’t try hard to disguise it these days. “Just saying hello.”

  “Oh. Sure thing, I’ll—”

  “And let Penny know I appreciate the signed CD for my niece.”

  “I’ll do that—”

  “I really hope she enjoyed the brownies I sent.”

  “I’m sure she did.” I’d seen Penny trash those. She and Harper said they tasted like chocolate cardboard. Before Amanda could launch into a full interrogation, I lurched toward the penthouse elevator and scanned my access card. “Really gotta run. Time to relieve Brick.”

  “Oh, sure.”

  Once inside, I breathed a sigh of relief. The private elevator took me up to Penny’s floor, where a wall of muscle in a tight black T-shirt awaited me. Brixton Douglas III, otherwise known by everyone in our security corp as Brick, met me halfway and put out one meaty fist. His mother named him after her favorite community in England while growing up, bu
t he’d earned the moniker early on for having a face that looked like it had been flattened by a brick, matched by fists that struck like one.

  “Skinny almond-milk mocha with an extra shot of espresso, just the way you like it.”

  “Ah, thanks, bruv. You’re the best.” Brick snatched his coffee and took a long sip, not even bothered by the scalding liquid. “God that’s good. I’m gonna miss these coffee dates of ours.”

  “Please, you’ll be sipping piña coladas and daiquiris served by bikini clad women. Coffee won’t even be on your radar.”

  “Hell yeah. Three weeks of sun on a beach. Can’t wait.” Brick’s grin stretched across his whole face, bringing out the laugh lines around his eyes. “Anyway, not much to report. Walked her down to get her mail but that’s about it. She spoke a minute to the concierge about a package she’s expecting and said hi to the doorman. Her usual stuff.”

  “I’ve got it, man. Head home and get some rest. Enjoy your vacation.”

  “You want me to swing by this evening when the new guy shows up?”

  “No. You just focus on packing. Don’t forget your sunscreen.”

  “Black as I am? You think I need sunscreen?”

  “Everybody needs sunscreen, man. Skin cancer doesn’t discriminate.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I got it.”

  Once Brick headed off, I knocked on the door. The locks clicked open one by one, first the security chain, then a couple of other precautions we had installed.

  Penny Wallace, better known to the world as the vocalist of Fyre and Ashes, was a scorching hot package of sex and sin on long legs. Her meteoric rise in the music world had landed her squarely in my lap as yet another example of why life sucked.

  It was bad business to get involved with a client. Especially a high-profile one.

  Didn’t change how much I wanted to take a handful of her red hair and bend her over the back of her living room sofa. Her ass was so perfect and round, paired with an ideal set of legs toned by her athletic dance performances on stage.

  “Got your coffee. The lines are crazy out there.”

  “That’s what you always say.” Penny opened the door wide and stepped back, allowing me inside.

  A quick assessment of her neutral features told me something was wrong. Penny always met me with a smile.

  I wanted to tear the head off whoever had ruined her morning, but I couldn’t come off like a psycho by offering to kill for her. Making sure the door was locked behind me, I followed her through the spacious living room to the kitchen. Sunshine streamed through windows showcasing a stunning view. My sixth-floor condo didn’t have the same punch.

  I watched her jerky movements for a few and the aggressive way she sipped through the straw. “Everything all right?”

  She pulled another sip through, caramel-glossed lips surrounding a straw I envied. “It’s another letter.” Penny gestured to the pile on her kitchen counter. The woman got a metric-fuck-ton of mail from her fans. I actually admired the fact that she went through them herself and didn’t pass the task off to an assistant.

  “Same sender?” I picked up the one that had disturbed her. It matched the previous ones, computer printed in a loopy font that looked pretentious as hell. Smelled the same, too, like someone had spritzed cologne over the page before folding it neatly and sealing it in the envelope. No return address.

  “This one came to my address,” she said, jabbing a finger at the envelope. “How does he keep finding me?”

  “I hate to say it, but the digital age doesn’t leave much room for privacy. This guy has your real name and obviously has experience with digging.” I frowned. The building had a pretty secure server—I’d made sure of that myself—but she had utilities and bills. Lots of places for this guy to have dug up her address.

  “So, what do I do now? Move again?” Her voice rose, just shy of shrill.

  “Whoa, now.” I held up both hands and kept my voice lower than I’d use with a spooked horse. She may not have been a horse, but she was definitely spooked. “Listen, you move, he’s just going to unearth your next address. This doesn’t mean anything more than it has in the past. When Amanda convinced you to move to this place, she sold you on it with the promise of security, remember? Here, at least, you are in a secured building and you have me not far away.”

  “You’re only one man.”

  I tried not to let that get to me.

  “A second team member is coming in tonight and will be staying in the building,” I said patiently. Suraj Patel was due to arrive in the next hour or two, depending on traffic. As much as I loathed the idea of having a roommate, it was the best solution for the moment—two of us in the same building as our client, allowing him a place to crash while looking for his own residence. “Besides that, one of my old teammates lives in the penthouse upstairs. You got a Navy doctor and a retired Marine above you. You’re safe here.”

  Penny took a deep breath and nodded. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m just freaked out, I guess.”

  “You have every right to be. I’ll take this letter and see if we can get anything from it. Eventually this guy has to slip up and we’ll get a print. Until then, why don’t you let me screen your mail first?”

  I must have lost my mind. The offer came before I could give it any real thought.

  “No, that’s not necessary. My mail, it’s… It’s private.”

  “All right, then how about a compromise? Any more letters without return addresses you leave for me to take a look at first.”

  She twisted a lock of copper-red hair around her finger, bottom lip trapped between her teeth. Even after nearly a year working with her, the quirk never failed to send a jolt straight to my cock. All I wanted to do was kiss that worried frown away.

  “You won’t read them?”

  “Only if I need to. I’ll give anything you’re uncertain about a quick skim to see if it’s from him. I’ll be able to tell from the smell and the font, anyway. I won’t read anything word for word unless it seems necessary.”

  Her breath exhaled in a frustrated huff. “Fine. I’ll set anything weird aside.”

  Small victories. In the time that I’d worked with her, I’d come to understand that Penny valued her privacy above all else, especially when she was on the road. She adored her band, always greeted her fans with the same demeanor, and treated the crew who worked for her like human beings instead of a staff at her command. There wasn’t a person who didn’t smile when encompassed by Penny’s light.

  But she wanted a normal life, and we all respected that. Penny wanted the career without the paparazzi involvement, tabloids, stolen shots on social media, and rumors. She refused to maintain a large staff, lacked a flashy car, and had no interest in owning a mansion. Two housekeepers visited three times a week, the pair of old ladies sometimes bringing us guards snacks and sweet tea.

  I really liked those days.

  I really liked any day that put me in close proximity with Penny.

  Why was this hell happening to me?

  I had it bad, the kind of bad that told me it was shifter instinct rearing its head and not just a crush for my breathtaking client. Unfortunately, Penny was less than two weeks out of a shitty relationship with a cheating asshole from Hollywood, and I overheard her telling her guitarist that she was finished with men for the foreseeable future.

  On top of that, getting involved with a client was bad business. I swore to myself when I first took this job from Ian that I’d never be the guy who hit on the people depending on us for protective services. He didn’t ask that from me, but I heard stories in the business. And everyone knew about that movie The Bodyguard, and sometimes someone hired us, took a liking to a guy, and thought she could recreate that story for herself. Brick had turned down a lot of starlets in his day, not because he was a pretty-looking dude—he wasn’t—but because he had the body of a Spartan warrior and they assumed he had a dick to match.

  Spoiler alert: Brick was also all about the dick.<
br />
  I hung around with her long enough to enjoy the coffee before returning to my place and checking out the security systems. The responsibility for monitoring her penthouse typically fell on the off-site team. A squad of technical guys at the company headquarters watched dozens of security streams around the Houston and San Antonio areas. Round-the-clock monitoring was a necessity of the job for some of our clientele, especially for the ones who had intruder scares in the past.

  It was their job, as well as mine, to know the name and face of every resident on her floor as well as their most frequent visitors.

  If anyone wanted to harm Penny, they’d have to go through me.

  I told myself that had nothing to do with the jackal in me wanting to claim her for a mate.

  I lied.

  Chapter Two

  Suraj

  During the time between client assignments, I spent a month with my family in Quickdraw. It had been nice to spend Christmas with them, getting to know cousins I hadn’t seen in years. I’d worked a somewhat pleasant fall and early winter in the service of a paranoid vampire businessman in Dallas who paid my boss big money to have the biggest shifter the company could offer on the premises.

  That was me. My orders were to maul the living hell out of anyone who stepped a wrongful foot on his property, and to consume the pieces, leaving no evidence.

  Ian, the company owner, assured me that detaining them for arrest would be good enough. We weren’t assassins, and taking a life should always be the last step once all other options were exhausted. Thankfully, Chevalier ended our services and closed out the contract when Ian made it clear we wouldn’t be annihilating his enemies and taking the law into our own hands.