Royce Morgan stood under the hot water and let his tired muscles simply enjoy. He’d spent the last six days providing security for people who had too much money and too few manners, on a mountain in Wyoming, wearing skis, with daydreams of a warm fire and bourbon the only thing keeping him sane.
He was grateful to be back in Vegas where a brutal February day was forty-five degrees.
He dumped some shampoo in his hand, scrubbed his very short hair and stuck his head under the spray to wash it out. When he was done, he realized his cell phone was ringing. Reluctantly he shut off the shower, shoved the sliding door open, and grabbed for a towel and the phone in one swipe.
“I am not late,” he answered, looking at the number.
“Not yet,” Trey said.
His business partner believed that arriving any later than an hour early was the height of slothfulness. “Listen,” Royce said. “I almost froze my ass off out there.”
“Lose any fingers or other important appendages?” Trey asked.
Royce looked down at his naked self. “Everything seems to be attached.”
“Good to know. Be an interesting worker’s comp claim.”
“Don’t I know it.” In addition to a full caseload, Royce handled the finance and risk management for Wingman Security. Made sure everybody got paid, that the bills didn’t stack up and that their assets were protected.
He put the phone on speaker and set it down so that he could dry himself off.
“Look,” Trey said, “we got an inquiry on the voice mail. Some guy who needs protection for a company executive. He wants a callback first thing this morning.”
Royce wasn’t usually responsible for contracting new business. That was Rico’s domain, but since Rico and Seth, the third and fourth men of the four-man partnership, were currently enjoying themselves on a beach in Mexico, that left him and Trey to pinch hit. Trey had evidently decided it was Royce’s turn at bat. “What’s the number?”
Trey rattled it off and Royce used his finger to write it on the fogged-up mirror. “Got it.”
“Remember that I’m tied up with the Anderson project for another two weeks,” Trey said.
“Understood,” Royce said. Trey was part of a team watching the private airfield of Billy-Bob Anderson, an eccentric billionaire from Maine who spent the winter in Vegas. He flew his own experimental aircraft and worried incessantly that everyone from Russia to Elvis’s ghost was intent upon copying his design. His plane was under twenty-four-hour guard.
That was probably the only reason that Trey hadn’t taken the call himself. “I’ll let you know once I talk to the guy.” He clicked off and took a second to enter the number into his phone.
Wingman didn’t take every job that came their way. It was probably what had allowed them in four years to build a very successful niche security business. However, executive protection was in their wheelhouse, so Royce was hopeful.
He walked naked into his kitchen and poured a cup of freshly made coffee that he’d had the good sense to start before getting in the shower. He stood at the counter, sipping gratefully.
Then he pushed Send on his phone and listened to it ring. He figured it was just about to go to voice mail when it was answered. “Hello,” a man said.
“This is Royce Morgan. I’m returning the message you left at Wingman Security.”
“Oh, thank God,” the man said.
Whatever the issue, this guy was rattled. Royce straightened up and set down his coffee cup. “How can I help you?” he asked.
“I’m Barry Wood, the chairman of the board of Miatroth. We’re a pharmaceutical firm and the CEO of our company needs security.”
Drug companies. Lots of people hated them. Thought they were screwing the consumer with inflated prices. “Where are you located?” Royce asked. They primarily worked in the western portion of the United States.
“New York City,” the man said.
Royce felt a pang in his middle. He took a quick sip of coffee. He hadn’t set foot east of the Mississippi River for over eight years. He didn’t even like to fly over the Atlantic coast. Too many memories. Too many regrets.
“I’m not sure why you’ve contacted Wingman Security,” Royce said. “We’re located in Vegas.”
“Our CEO is attending a conference there.”
“When?”
“Right now. And last night, there was some trouble. Can you meet us at the Periwinkle Hotel?”
Swanky place that stood out in a world of lavishness. “I can be there in a half hour.”
“Excellent. Suite 1402. We’ll be expecting you.”
Royce finished getting dressed, pulling on dark slacks, a blue button-down long-sleeved shirt and a sport coat. Then it was into his BMW. Reluctantly, he kept the top up, hoping that by noon it would be plenty warm enough to drive around with it down.
The Periwinkle was a mammoth structure of stone and glass with a few thousand tons of iron thrown in. At least forty stories, with a corner location, it had a presence