Page 14 of Property of Saint

After a second has passed, Saint growls, “What’s stopping you, Princess?”

Without missing a beat, I balance on one leg, supporting myself with a hand against the wall, and move both crutches into one hand. Sweetly, I say, “Can you show me how it’s done?”

A moment passes, then he puts his arm around me, pulls both walking aids away from me, and passes them to the prospect who’s following behind. “Fuck this.” And then I’m airborne, being carried in his arms.

I swallow the pain that wells up, each step agony to my head, shoulder, leg, and so many aches I wonder if there’s any undamaged part left in my body. I also tamp down the thought of the extra injury he might be causing to me now. I might be dying a slow death from internal bleeding. I might have insisted I wasn’t going to go to a hospital, but now I’m questioning whether I made the right choice. After getting their so-called doctor to treat me, they’re not showing much sympathy or care now.

I’m muting the whimpers of pain that threaten to escape me by the time we reach the final step, and, at last, he puts me down, holding my arm until once again, the crutches are situated under me. Then he lets go fast.

Head down, I take a few breaths to steady myself, breathing shallowly to spare my ribs. I longingly imagine the comfort of a hospital bed with machines beeping around me, but the thought is quickly followed by the reality.If I were taken in as an emergency, it’s more than likely someone would already have taken me out.I’m here as I’ve no other option. Whatever happens, I’ve got to smile and take it. So, when Saint beckons me forward, I go where he directs.

When I come to a set of double doors, I pause. He steps in front and opens them. It’s the signal I should enter, but nervousness has me hesitating, as I see a room full of bikers, who are all staring my way. After another breath to steady myself, I metaphorically pull back my shoulders, the crutches preventing me from doing it in actuality, and step forward, plastering a nonchalant look on my face. A secret service agent is trained to face up to adversity. To keep their emotions suppressed.

Without appearing to show interest, I scan the room. Bullseye and Freak, who I met earlier, sit at one end of the table, theimportantend, I surmise. Then I train my eyes on the rest of the men who seem overly interested in me. There’s Short, who helped the nurse, Bron, with the medical bag. I notice one empty seat beside their prez, Saint’s I presume.

“Come in,” Bullseye commands. He waves his hand, but directs me to an empty space devoid of chairs at the back of the room.

I don’t like appearing weak, and while keeping balanced is giving me real problems due to my damaged head as well as my defective limbs, I obediently move to the place indicated. But standing there, despite my best intentions, I start to sway and can feel my eyes rolling back into my head.

“Fuck’s sake,” Saint growls, not for the first time this evening, and before I can fall, his strong arms are surrounding me onceagain. Someone takes my crutches from me, and the next thing I realise is that I’m being placed in a chair.

Letting my pounding head drop forward onto the table, I rest it on my arms, taking in whatever breaths my bruised body allows, to try to get oxygen once again circulating through my veins. I wait for the nausea and dizziness to fade, allowing the sound of men talking to wash over me, without bothering to translate the words. Staying alive is more than enough effort for me to worry about anything else.

Gradually, I become conscious of what one man is saying, as the word, Phillipa is repeated again and again. As the name filters through, my attention is finally caught, and I look up.

Directly across from me is a giant of a man who I recall as having been in my room. He’s wearing a smirk. “Phillipa,” he asserts again.

Once again, my head starts spinning, but it’s no longer my physical condition that's making me feel faint. Knowing that having responded to my name, I’ve already given myself away, I again drop my face down, hopefully making them think I’ve passed out to buy myself some time to think.

A hand thumps down so loudly it makes me flinch. “Phillipa Owens, we know exactly who you are.” The words and the tone in which they’re delivered make me drop all pretence.

I raise my head and turn toward the sound. The pronouncement had come from Bullseye, seated at the table’s head.

Seeing he’s got my attention, he shakes his head and sighs. “Just tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now.”

Some grit comes back to me. “Seems like you might have already done that. You offer me the service of a sexually abusive doctor.” I don’t miss a couple of flinches around the table, which give me strength to carry on. “I’ve probably got a traumatic brain injury, and could be bleeding internally, which you’ve madeworse by manhandling me into this room.” A little bit of guilt goes through me as Saint was actually gentle when he settled me down. But it doesn’t stop me continuing, “You’re not doing much to keep me in good health.”

“And why the fuck should we? You looking to take us down? You deliberately got Saint to bring you to us.” Bullseye gets directly to the pertinent question.

After rolling my eyes, I throw his words back at him. “Why the fuck should I? If you know who I am, you’ll know I’m Secret Service.” I take a breath. “Primarily, we provide protection services or investigate financial crimes that threaten the country.” Probably stupidly, I can’t stop a sneer showing on my face. “A motorcycle gang isn’t even on our radar, unless you’re committing grand fraud or larceny.” A shake of my head suggests I think it's unlikely. Petty money laundering perhaps, but it’s not sufficient to attract the interest of the oldest established law enforcement agency in the United States. Suddenly, all the unfairness of the situation hits me. “I didn’t ask Saint to help me when I was run off the road. It’s quite a leap to think that this whole situation was a setup to get me here.”

Bullseye shushes his men, who start to speak, and taps his fingers against his lips in the ensuing silence. After a moment, he gives a slow nod. “Okay. So we’re not worthy of your interest, and Saint was just in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and clearly not in his right mind. Our problem,sweetheart,is that you’re here now.”

I pull myself away from the indignation that they possibly think this was a put-up job. I try to block out of my mind that, though a motorcycle gang, or club, as I know they prefer to call themselves, is beyond the interest of the secret service, they are still criminals. I force myself to consider the position I’m in. I’m injured, not at fighting strength, and without proper medical attention, it’s still possible I might die. Yet I can’t blame them forthat. I was the one who refused to go to the hospital. Though, if I’d had a crystal ball, maybe I’d have taken that chance. Much as I, and obviously they, hate it, this MC and I will need to come to terms with each other. If only I could give them a reason not to kill me. I wish my brain hadn’t been rattled around in my skull. I’m certainly not firing on all cylinders, and now I’m expected to enter a negotiation to save my life.Fuck me.

I try to buy time, but can feel a restlessness descend on the room. Before they lose patience, I ask, “Cards on the table?” I raise my eyebrows and look first at Bullseye, then at the others sitting around. I’m rewarded with chin lifts or quirks of their heads. “You know my name, you know the situation…”

“Question.” One whose name I don’t yet know raises his hand as though in class. “Was the killing of Preston Adams contrived, and were you part of it?”

Breathing deeply, I’m not surprised to be asked, so consider my words carefully. “I worked fucking hard to get to the position I was in. High enough up the chain to be considered suitable for protecting a high-profile candidate, so close to the election. Sure, I’m vertically challenged compared to some other agents, but I can give anyone a run for their money in other attributes and skills. I’ll give you the facts as I know them.” Glancing around again, I see that they’re all listening. Again, I shrug. “The campaign rally was going as expected. Nothing on our radar. We were all looking into the crowd for threats, but the local police and FBI were responsible for checking the perimeter. Shots broke out. Our training came into play, and my colleagues and I surrounded the candidate and were trying to get him away. I put my hand on his head to keep him down, but the stupid bastard wanted to make a stand. He evaded my restraint, stood up, pumped his fist, and made himself a target.” I pause. “If one of my taller colleagues had been where I was, they would havetaken the bullet. But they weren’t, I was. The bullet went over my head, and he was dead.”

Tempest is frowning, and he’s the one who asks, “Could it have been planned? I mean, that you would have been in that spot at that time?”

Shaking my head, I reply, “We all just ran toward him.” Breaking off, I bite my lip. “You must understand I’ve been through this in my head hundreds of times. Sure, there was pushing and shoving. It’s possible, but not probable, that one of the other agents manipulated me into that position at that time, but I can’t see how it’s feasible. Just as I can’t see how I could have placed myself there if I was part of the plot.” Pursing my lips, I add, “I apparently was in league with a sniper who may or may not have had contacts within the FBI.”

“But some people believe that’s exactly what happened.” It’s Freak who sums up. “There are so many conspiracies online suggesting how it went down. And how their man ended up dead.”

Their man.Who he’s talking about is a man who anyone who’s been close to him, people like me, the ones paid to protect him, have seen through in an instant. An actor who plays heroes on screen, but when the act is dropped, he’s a two-bit diva menace. Trouble is, he knows his craft too well. As soon as he’s in front of the cameras or on stage, his voice drops an octave, his back straightens, and he plays the role as if he were born to it. Wouldn’t matter one iota if the next part he had his eye on wasn’t the President of the United States. And, unfortunately, he’s entranced all those outside his personal orbit. Of course, some see through him, but they know it will serve them to hang onto his coattails. He might have played saving the world in a multitude of scenarios, but he’s in no way qualified to do that in real life. He’s only as intelligent as the lines he reads that werewritten for him, and I know he’s easily manipulated. Or was. He’s now dead. And on my watch.

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