Page 6 of The Placeholder
As I shrug into my tactical jacket, the Glock against my ribs feels like an extension of my body. Those surveillance photos burn in my mind—predatory eyes tracking a target. My target now.
“My love life can wait,” I growl, checking the magazine in my backup piece. “Someone’s hunting Marla Rivers. Starting tonight, they’re hunting a ghost.”
“Christ,” Alek laughs, “you’re turning into Dad.”
My jaw tightens, thinking of the folded flag on my mantle. “Growing old is a luxury my brothers in Kandahar never got.” The names are tattooed on my soul like the coordinates inked on my shoulder blade—Johnson, Martinez, Kowalski. I survived. They didn’t. That debt can only be paid in one currency:purpose.
The lobby of the Grand Hyatt screams vulnerability, with its towering glass atrium and multiple unsecured entrances. I catalog fourteen security breaches before we even reach the private elevator, and my blood pressure climbs with each floor.
“This is exactly why I specified the Garrison,” I say to Alek as we ascend to the penthouse. “Low profile, controlled access points, and private underground parking.”
Alek adjusts his earpiece. “You know celebrities. They want the fantasy, not the fortress.”
“Fantasies get people killed.”
The elevator doors slide open to reveal Kyle Jeffries, Marla’s head of security, a man whose resume reads like a community college dropout’s LinkedIn profile. He’s wearing a suit that costs more than most people’s monthly rent, but his stance betrays his mall cop training—weight on his heels, hands clasped in front instead of ready at his sides.
“Warner,” he nods, trying for authority but landing somewhere between constipated and concerned. “Ms. Rivers is expecting you.”
The penthouse suite sprawls across the entire top floor, floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the city—and making my skin crawl with every exposedsightline to surrounding buildings. Tactically, it’s a sniper’s wet dream.
“Jesus Christ,” I breathe, mentally calculating bullet trajectories through the glass. “Get those drapes closed. Now.”
Before Kyle can respond, Marla Rivers emerges from the master suite like a hurricane in human form. Five-foot-nothing of a perfectly crafted pop princess, draped in what appears to be a silk robe that barely qualifies as clothing. Her chestnut hair cascades in deliberately tousled waves, and her eyes lock onto me with predatory focus.
“Axel,” she purrs, my name somehow becoming two syllables in her mouth. “My hero arrives.”
She glides across the marble floor, perfume leaving a trail that hits my senses like a flashbang—sweet, disorienting, designed to cloud judgment. Before I can establish professional distance, she’s pressed against me, one manicured hand sliding up my arm to squeeze my bicep.
“God, I feel safer already,” she whispers, her breath warm against my neck. “Those arms should be illegal in all fifty states.”
I step back, creating tactical space between us. “Ms. Rivers, we need to discuss security protocols immediately.”
“Call me Marla, please,” she smiles, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “Ms. Rivers makes me feel ancient.”
Alek coughs to hide his laughter, and I shoot him a look that would wither vegetation.
“Your security team needs a complete overhaul before tomorrow’s performance,” I say, deliberately movingtoward the dining table where I can spread out the blueprints. “Starting with this location. This penthouse is a liability.”
Marla follows, trailing her fingers across my shoulder blades. “I like dangerous things, Axel. They make life interesting.”
The room’s temperature seems to spike ten degrees, and I force myself to focus on unrolling the arena schematics rather than the warmth of her touch.
“Danger isn’t interesting when it puts a bullet in your head,” I say flatly, my voice dropping to the register I used when dressing down new recruits. “This isn’t a game.”
Ethel Barnes, Marla’s fifty-something manager, enters from the adjoining suite, tablet in hand, looking like she’s been running damage control since the Clinton administration. “Marla, darling, perhaps you should change while the security team sets up?”
“Why?” Marla slides closer, her hip brushing mine. “Axel doesn’t mind, do you? I’m comfortable.”
My patience, already threadbare, snaps like overextended tactical webbing. I step away from her and face Kyle and Ethel directly.
“This stops now.” My voice cuts through the room like a combat knife. “While you’re playing games, three men with possible cartel connections have been tracking Ms. Rivers for the past two weeks. They’re professionals, not fans, and they’re escalating their surveillance.”
I slap the photos onto the table, the images of hard-faced men with dead eyes staring up at us.
“This one,” I tap the image of a man with a scar bisecting his left eyebrow, “was spotted on the servicelevel of this hotel forty minutes ago. Your security team missed him completely.”
The color drains from Kyle’s face. Ethel’s tablet slips from her fingers to the couch cushions.
