Page 18 of Merciless Protector

I woke to a dark room with the blackout blinds in place. I couldn’t tell if the clock meant eleven in the morning or evening. It was the latter. Thank goodness for twenty-four-hour room service. I placed another order, and the food had never tasted so good. The meal I’d wolfed down the previous night, I hadn’t taken the time to appreciate how the flavors burst on my tongue. Now I did.

I spent the next several hours trying to keep my mind clear of memories by switching between news and shows with a nap or two in between. When the time came to leave, I was dressed and ready. The tux Griff had sent to my room fit like it was tailored for me. I didn’t wait for Kelsey’s call. She was my driver again tonight. I was just inside the hotel lobby doors when she pulled up in the same sedan from the other day.

She parked and came around to open my door like any professional car service. I got in and didn’t speak until we were underway.

“Everything’s in place?” I asked.

“Absolutely,” she said pleasantly.

“Do we know if she’s there?”

Kelsey shook her head, which caused her hair to glide across her shoulders in a tumble of cascading waves. According to Griff, she had a dress in the back and an invitation that would fool anyone if needed. She was my backup if necessary, and her makeup and hair were ready for the switch.

“It’s just you and Griff?”

“Yep.”

Griff’s company, as one of the premium private security firms for the rich and famous, had other clients. What he was doing for me was pro bono. Apparently, one of his more famous clients had a thing in LA that required a team there pronto without warning. That left him short on personnel. Funny how he’d chosen Kelsey to keep close.

“Don’t worry. We’ve got this. Griffin is already in place.”

Griff was posing as the catering manager. He’d been on site since early this morning. He was feeding Kelsey the layout of the mansion where the fundraiser for the senator was happening. Ruin’s father was a senator and came from old money. The old man had sent his son to a prominent prep school where the boy reigned terror. It was that privilege that gave Ruin the idea that he was above the law. It sickened me.

We pulled up a long drive to a mansion that mimicked the back view of the White House with the many columns across the front. Already, there were people walking up the wide stairs to the grand double-door entryway.

“Are you ready for this?” Kelsey asked.

A black-tie affair to raise money for the senator in his upcoming election shouldn’t be a dangerous activity. But with Ruin in attendance, one couldn’t be sure.

“As ready as I’m going to be.”

The plan was to throw Ruin off by meeting him, not as the persona of Ruin he’d created. Rather as Randolph Covington III, the name he was born with. When he knew that I knew who he really was, we hoped it would help in the negotiations to get Tayla back.

We had to wait a few minutes in the car line before I was brought to the front of the circular drive to be let out. Kelsey didn’t have to get out to open my door, because the event had porters to do just that.

The night was cool but not cold. I hurried up the stairs and didn’t dottle like others who were milling about and talking to other guests. Last thing I needed was small talk and someone to ask me who I was.

Lights lit up the house as night settled over the land. I showed the attendant at the door the pass on my phone to give me access. They scanned, and I held my breath. Kelsey had done the honors and hacked into the guest list and added me. The scanner turned green, and I flashed the guy a smirk before entering.

It wasn’t a small affair. The place was almost standing room only. That was a good thing. Hopefully, I wouldn’t be noticed. As I discreetly kept an eye out for Ruin, I stopped next to a waiter and took a flute when I noticed a friend of my father's. Turning quickly but not abruptly, I headed in the other direction. My hair color was different, but my face hadn’t changed. If the guy looked at me long enough, he might guess who I really was.

I slipped into a room that was likely a parlor. There was an elegant living room set that was done in the French Renaissance style. Seated on the delicate furniture was a portly man who was speaking in hushed tones to another man who didn’t quite look like a guest, nor did he look like help. I wandered in their direction and caught an exchange. The man handed the portly one what appeared to be an old-fashioned key. The portly man slipped it in his pocket and gave the other man a curt nod to dismiss him.

Though I hadn’t been there for long, this exchange felt important. It didn’t take long before the portly man got to his feet, made excuses to those near him, and walked with purpose out of the room.

There were enough people I didn’t have to disguise the fact that I was following him. There were too many people going every which way for anyone not purposefully watching me to notice what I was up to. That was until we reached a hallway manned by a hulking figure with an earpiece on.

I held back and watched as the portly man produced the key he’d been given. The security guy checked his phone and scrolled as if he was matching the key to a picture on his screen. Then he must have because he waved the portly man forward. I watched as the man went halfway down the short hall before opening a door and taking one step down before the door closed behind him.

Something about the whole thing made it a priority that I get down there. I needed a key. I texted Griff to see if he knew anything about what was happening on the lower level of the basement. Then I went in search of the key guy.

I ended up on a wide, expansive back terrace. There were stairs that flanked either side that led to lush gardens illuminated by the moonlight. At the top of the stairs stood a security guard at each end, which led me to believe there was indeed something going on in the lower level.

Back inside, I ended up in a grand ballroom of sorts filled with the rich and famous in their evening attire. On the arms of most men were women of contemporary age, except for a few men who held on tight to their arm candy or trophy wives. Just inside the door a few yards away, I spotted my quarry. The young man stood with an older man in deep conversation in close quarters. I made my way in their direction.

As I got a few feet away from where the exchange of keys took place, the older man closed his hand around a key. He then slipped it into the outer pocket of his designer suit jacket. As a younger man left, I made my move. As I passed the older man, I accidentally, on purpose, bumped into him enough so he wouldn’t feel my hand slip into his pocket and take the key. I didn’t look at the item in my hand. I kept walking toward the guard, who blocked the hallway that led to the lower-level door.

Once there, I said nothing but slipped my hand out of my pocket, opened it, and revealed the key to the guard and myself. Antique bronze in color and weight, at the top, a heart bloomed out of a crown fittingly. The key part itself, which could fit into a lock, looked like the turret of a castle. The guard, unimpressed, having likely seen many of these, turned his attention to his tablet and scrolled down a list. Since I couldn’t see the screen, I had to assume that each key was unique. Seconds later, he appeared to see a duplicate on his screen as he glanced back at the key before waving me forward.

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