Page 4 of No Safe Place

He was glad he’d called for Shaw for the New York trip at the last minute.

Large and in charge, Shaw was a former Green Beret with a Special Forces résumé of combat experience that was simply jaw-dropping.

But of course, it was. Vance Holdings, the firm Frank’s hedge fund contracted with for security, was a private mercenary firm as well as an executive protection shop and he had been told Shaw worked both sides of that aisle.

Though the fee Frank was paying Shaw for one night’s work was astonishing, the dude was worth it. Not just for his bone-crushing skills but also for his handsome chiseled hard-eyed good looks.

For a big profile event, Shaw was exactly who you wanted parting the crowd in front of you to project invincibility and power. Frank’s everyday bodyguard, Kenny, sitting beside Shaw was excellent—a real beast—but matinee-idol looks weren’t exactly Kenny’s strong suit.

When the paparazzi flashbulbs started popping and you wanted people to think you were the wolf of Wall Street, you wanted a Leo beside you, Frank thought. While Kenny was more of a Jonah Hill.

And Shaw had some mad driving skills. He’d floored them up here from Manhattan in record time without batting an eyelash. Kenny, on the other hand, despite a trip to chauffeur school, was nervous behind the wheel and often drove like a grandmother. Especially in Manhattan traffic. It was good to have someone solid with you in a pinch.

“Park on the street, sir?” Shaw asked again.

“No,” Frank said. “Park inside the gate. Also, listen up. When I go in, I don’t want you in this vehicle snoozing. You understand me? I want you out of the car keeping your eyes open. Just because we’re not in the city anymore doesn’t mean you’re off duty. I’m paying you for protection, not for you to fall asleep.”

“Roger that, sir,” Shaw said.

“The both of you,” Frank said, looking at the back of Kenny’s head.

“Of course, um, sir,” Kenny said with a tepid enthusiasm.

5

Founded by nineteenth-century industrialist robber baron-turned-transcendentalist, Horace V. Beckford, Beckford College’s campus in Beckford, Connecticut, was laid out in two huge blocks.

At the corner of the most northern block at the end of Lawton Road was the Beckford College president’s residence and grounds. Surrounded by an antique wrought iron fence, the gothic two-story mansion constructed of red brick and clapboard was on the National Register of Historic Places and was the actual former home of Horace V. Beckford himself.

And tonight, on the other side of its wrought iron gates, parked before its historic wraparound porch, for some strange reason was a gazillion-dollar Rolls-Royce SUV from New York.

“I knew it,” whispered Olivia from where she was crouched in the dark of the women’s softball field across Lawton Road.

Olivia looked up and down Lawton. She was surprised that campus security dork Travers wasn’t around. If it involved anyone important, Travers was there with bells on. His brown nose was like a heat-seeking missile.

Coast still clear, Olivia took out her phone to take a picture of the luxury vehicle that was very curiously visiting the president’s house in the middle of the night when she realized how fruitless the move would be since she couldn’t see the license plate from where she was. If she didn’t get a shot of the New York plate, what would be the dang point? She considered hopping the field’s short chain-link fence and crossing Lawton, getting closer maybe.

But no, she thought as she surveyed the thick hedges along the house’s wrought iron fencing on both sides. The hedges were in the way. There was no way she’d be able to get an angle.

Oh, well. At least she’d made a stab at it.

She was past the softball field coming up the stairs for the soccer field, heading back to her dorm, when she suddenly remembered something.

Or maybe the night actually isn’t over after all, she thought as she started jogging, and then flat out running, across the field to get back to her room.

6

At first, the slight crickle-crackle sound that began to cut in and out of the cold crisp air beneath the covered porch was so faint Shaw wasn’t really sure if it was an outside sound at all. The white noise of silence playing tricks on his mind maybe, he thought as he cocked his head at the dark. Or perhaps just the cold wind vibrating off the drum of his ear.

When the faint suggestion of a sound suddenly became a louder crackling, Shaw took a few steps forward from where he’d been standing to the left of the elaborate front door of the college president’s house.

“You hear that?” he said, peering into the dark.

“Hear what?” the meathead muscle-bound Kenny said behind him, not bothering to look up from where he was leaning against the clapboard playing with his phone.

And the key word was playing, Shaw noted. He’d gotten a glance at the big dummy’s phone screen and he had some kid’s game on it. Some Tetris thing with fruit instead of Lego blocks falling down and exploding.

Maybe Frank Stone could do no wrong making money on Wall Street, Shaw thought. But his judgment when it came to personal security was hard to understand. Kenny, a former defensive end for the Miami Dolphins, had some size and strength on him for sure, but he was about as observant and vigilant as a goldfish and had about the same attention span.

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