“He’s always gotten a few bigoted comments on social media, but lately the attention has become slightly more…” Roland trailed off, his gaze drifting to the ceiling as he chose his next word. “Sinister.”
Kate frowned. “Can you be more specific?”
Oz remained resolutely silent, arms folded tightly across his chest, his expression blank as he left Roland to elaborate. “The comments on Oz’s social-media accounts have become hateful, and increasingly threatening, since someone posted his address in one of the Citizens First forums.”
She snapped to attention at the name of the hate group gaining highly publicized traction across the country. Citizens First claimed to be an anti-immigration coalition, but they always seemed to find time in their busy schedule of xenophobia to be anti-gay and anti-woman, too. They were also notorious for flouting privacy laws and publishing private data.
She gave Oz another, more thorough onceover, wondering what about him could piss off a group like Citizens First. His name was fairly exotic, though she couldn’t place its origin. He was well dressed, leanly built, and she supposed his angular face would be considered handsome if you liked that gaunt, underwear-model look.
She was more a blond-stubble-and-pickup-truck type herself, or would be if she had any interest in dating. After eight years of being told where to live and what to do—and in Saudi, what to wear and how to behave—she was done taking orders. She wanted to reconnect with her family, get her career going, and plant her feet on the ground.
If the perfect man fell into her lap and fit in with all that, fine. But she sure as hell wasn’t going looking for him.
“The post was removed almost as quickly as it went up, so we couldn’t do much about it,” Roland explained, tugging her back to the present. “But my concern is the damage is done, and I think it’s time for us to look at putting security measures into place in Oz’s home. That’s why we’re here.”
Maybe he’s gay. He must be gay. “May I ask in what context the address was posted?”
“The thread was “Raghead Terrorists Infiltrating America’s Sports.” As far as I remember.” Oz spoke for the first time. His voice was deeper than she expected, and softly accented, but his sarcastic monotone fit his ornery posture to a T. His eyes found her intently as he added, “I’m Muslim.”
“Really? I thought tattoos were haram.”
It was an unprofessional, unnecessary reply, but it generated the reaction she wanted. Shock cracked Oz’s detached façade for a split second.
“What do you know about haram?” he asked, his tone wavering between annoyed and impressed.
“Eight years in the army with deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan, and I spent the last year working in security services for an American oil company in Saudi Arabia. I’m fairly familiar with the core tenets of Islam.”
The beat of silence that followed was delicious. She resisted the urge to punch the air.
“Well, I’m non-practicing. Mostly.”
She nodded, briefly enjoying a secret sense of triumph at Oz’s rattled composure before refocusing on the task at hand. “Did anything happen to trigger your inclusion in the list? Any particular reason you’ve become a target?”
He shrugged, flattening his palms on his knees. “I pray on the pitch before each match, but I’ve always done that.”
“He was in an article about Muslim athletes a couple of weeks ago, in one of the national papers,” Roland offered. “It was about a few different athletes, but the photo was of Oz at an event here in Atlanta.”
“Yeah, an interfaith event at the Peace Institute,” Oz scoffed, re-crossing his arms. “This whole thing is ridiculous. My parents are Turkish, I was born in Sweden, I’ve lived in the United States for ten years—the article even says I don’t fast for Ramadan. I’m a pacifist, not a terrorist or even a fundamentalist. So one racist asshole told his racist friends where I live. They’re all such cowards, I’m probably at greater risk of being hit by a bus than one of them crawling out from behind their computer and showing up at my house.”
“Don’t underestimate these people,” Roland warned, taking the words out of Kate’s mouth. “Hatred and rationality don’t usually go together.”
“And reacting to their hatred empowers it, and empowers them.”
“I’m not having this discussion again,” Roland informed him between clenched teeth. “Your safety is paramount, so let’s see what Kate recommends.”
Oz rolled his eyes and retorted angrily in what Kate assumed to be Swedish. Roland replied in kind, and she didn’t need to be bilingual to understand the heated, clipped barbs the men exchanged. While Roland kept his composure, Oz’s voice rose in volume, his speech quickened, and his expression intensified. He turned to face his manager, giving her a view of his perfect jaw, tightened and defined in irritation.
Okay, he was actually pretty hot. Shame about the personality.
She sighed inwardly, turning a page in her binder. She really did need to get laid if she was lusting after a pretty-boy soccer player.
“Moving on,” Roland said sharply in English, recalling her attention. Roland’s gaze landed on her resolutely, while Oz shook his head and stared out the window.
“At the moment he has no security at all, and that needs to change,” the manager stated firmly. “What do you recommend?”
She looked from Roland’s resolute expression to Oz’s sulky one and back again. This was a wide-open opportunity to sell a long-term suite of services to a wealthy, successful, famous-in-some-circles client.
It would require a lot of contact with Oz, particularly at the beginning. But if she got this right, Peak Tactical could become the preferred provider for Atlanta Skyline. Not only could they offer personal services to the players, there was stadium and game-day security, partnerships with other firms when the team traveled, pre- and post-season event staffing, background checks, bodyguards for VIP fans…
She folded her hands on the desk and smiled. “Let’s start with the basics. Oz, does your home have an alarm system?”
* * * *
“They’re not putting an alarm system in my house,” Oz insisted in Swedish, shoving his hand through his hair as he followed his manager across the parking lot.
An oversized, Peak Tactical-branded pickup had parked beside his two-door Mercedes AMG, and it hung over the line so badly he wasn’t sure he could get the driver’s-side door open. He exhaled in disgust.
Roland stopped beside his own, larger Mercedes, apparently oblivious to the pickup’s violation of Oz’s parking space. “What’s wrong with an alarm system? Everyone has one nowadays. Mine was preinstalled when I bought the house.”
“It’s invasive, that’s what’s wrong with it. It’s an intrusive, pervasive, aggressive assertion about faith in humanity, and it’s not the kind of statement I want made in my home.”
Roland unlocked his car, opened the door and rested his elbow on its top edge. “It’s a white box with lights and buttons that makes a noise and alerts the security company if someone forces open a window or a door. How is that a statement?”
“It says my house is a fortress that needs to be protected. It says I can’t trust people outside its walls. I don’t want to live like that.”
“After a week, you won’t even know it’s there.”
“Of course I will,” Oz protested. “I’ll have to set it every time I leave the house and disarm it every time I come in. And where are they going to put the panel—right beside the front door? What if I want to come in through the garage? Or the back door? You know how hard I’ve worked to get that house exactly