Page 61 of Single Mom's Bodyguards
“I’ve got an in—employee exit in the rear,” Chief says over comms. “Take it?”
“Right the fuck now.”
19
WESLEY
There’s always one.
The others scatter when Chief shows up, bursting through the back of the shop and heading straight for the front exit with police riot gear no camera can take a picture through. She plows through the line of paparazzi who don’t wisely get out of her way. Then Huck growls from behind the scattered assholes, and the smart ones scramble away. They flinch, they curse, they back off toward their sedans with the heavy lenses and already-written captions. You can spot the real vultures by the speed they disappear when it stops being worth the shot.
But not this guy. He’s across the street. Doesn’t even bother to pretend he was there for the ice cream. He just watches Bailey through the glass like he already knows what she’s going to do. And that’s what sets me off.
Because this guy? He’s not reacting to the moment.
He’s waiting.
He’s not dressed like the others either. No media lanyard. No branded hat. Just a black hoodie, jeans, boots that cost morethan mine, and an old Canon DSLR that’s been spray-painted matte black. Tactical, not casual.
I log his face. Blond beard. Small frame. Twitchy fingers, steady lens.
He takes one last photo—through the window, even after Sean moves to block the angle—and then he disappears down the alley beside the florist like he’s done it a thousand times before.
I let the rest of the team handle the crowd. I follow him.
The alley’s narrow, littered with takeout boxes and the stink of day-old coffee grounds. I trail the guy silently, matching his pace, staying just out of reach. I let him think he lost me. He takes a left into a side lot, lowers his camera, and checks his phone.
That’s when I close the distance. I slide up behind him fast, grab the strap of the camera, and yank. He whirls around, fists up.
When he swings, I catch his fist and crush. “Don’t bother. You picked the wrong fucking woman to tail.”
He tries to pull his hand from mine and gives up fast. “What do you want?”
“You got a name?”
He doesn’t answer.
I step in closer, shoving him against the brick wall in the dark alley. “You’re not paparazzi.”
He stays quiet.
“You’re not freelance either. That’s a security-grade lens. Customized body. Civilian paparazzi don’t usually mod out their own Canons.”
Still nothing.
I take a wild guess. “You work for David?”
That gets a flicker in his eyes.
“You were sent to watch her.”
His jaw ticks.
“You took the photos at the house.”
No answer. That’s enough for me. I grab him by the collar and slam him against the side of the alley wall. Not hard. Just enough to let him know I’m done being polite. “You’re coming with me.”
And this time, he flinches. But the guy doesn’t struggle when I zip-tie his wrists. That tells me everything I need to know. He knew this was a possibility. Which means this wasn’t just a solo op. This was planned. Backed. Funded. And David’s name sits at the top of my mental suspect board in thick, red Sharpie.
