Rare Vigilance Read online

  Also available from M.A. Grant

  and Carina Press

  The Darkest Court series

  The Prince of Air and Darkness

  The Marked Prince

  The Iron Crown

  And watch for the next book in the

  Whitethorn Agency series, coming soon!

  Content Warning

  Rare Vigilance contains descriptions of PTSD, anxiety, violence, blood, intense bodily harm and death.

  Rare Vigilance

  M.A. Grant

  To my husband—I still don’t know what’s for dinner.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Excerpt from Prince of Air and Darkness by M.A. Grant

  Chapter One

  “Can you look less pissed off?” Greasy Ferret, Jr. muttered at Atlas, even as he pasted on a fake smile and waved to his adoring fans. All four of them.

  Atlas did his best to relax his eyes and jaw. It was a struggle, especially with the afternoon sun beating down on them at their little booth at the county fair. His sunglasses had helped with the worst of the glare, but had done little to slow the intensity of his growing migraine. Combine the light with the heavy scent of fried foods, the cloying perfumes of overworked deodorants worn by sweating fairgoers, and Greasy Ferret, Jr.’s obnoxious cologne—Five hundred dollars a bottle, he’d bragged to Atlas without prompting—and he knew today’s job would leave him wrung out. He was glad he’d taken a half dose of his migraine meds before starting the shift; he’d take the other half when he got home, and hopefully it would be enough to keep him from getting knocked down for days. At least this job would be over soon. Greasy Ferret, Jr.’s contract was very clear on Atlas’s hours, as well as his purpose.

  A glorified guard dog, dressed in a spiked collar, on display before the masses. A status symbol rented for a few hours to make Greasy Ferret, Jr. appear more important than he actually was. And the man was playing it up as much as he could.

  Atlas sighed when one of the adoring fans screwed up enough courage to step forward with a DVD case in hand. Atlas knew what was coming. Ferret waved him forward. Atlas, who’d been standing angled toward him, held up a hand to keep the eager fan from coming closer. The man obeyed, and Ferret quivered in delight from the power play. The thick pomade spread through his hair glinted in the sunlight as he gestured Atlas forward again. Atlas wondered for the fourteenth time that day how the grease hadn’t melted down Ferret’s collar yet. A single look confirmed the stranger was definitely not a threat. Atlas took the proffered DVD case, and handed it over to his temporary employer.

  Ferret tried to look excited to see the film inside, scrawling a signature over the disc with abandon. Atlas wouldn’t have signed his name to that movie; he would have burned every copy he could get his hands on. But he wasn’t Greasy Ferret, Jr., and he didn’t make his money by wringing out every ounce of dubious fame he’d gained from an atrocious ’80s sitcom.

  His life was shitty, but he still had some of his pride, thank you very much.

  “Always nice to see a fan,” Greasy Ferret, Jr. gushed as he handed the DVD back to Atlas, who returned it to its original owner.

  “I’m so glad you could make it this year,” the fan said, holding tight to his keepsake. “I was worried you’d cancel again. I know the last few years have been hard. But I loved Flashbang! All those people who complained didn’t understand your message in it.” He glanced at Atlas. “Don’t you think so too?”

  Atlas bit the inside of his cheek and managed to keep from snorting in derision. He took a second to gather himself before stating calmly, “Haven’t seen it yet.”

  “Haven’t seen it yet?” the fan asked, horrified. “They just released the limited edition tin! How could you forget a movie like that?”

  Oh, there was no way Atlas could ever have forgotten it. It came out five years ago, the same year he’d been sent home from his tour. He’d been unable to escape the endless trailers constantly playing on TV. Touted by some as an “inspirational” look at the challenges faced by service members returning home after being in conflict zones, the movie saw Greasy Ferret, Jr.—its director, producer, and lead actor—run around town with a brick of a mobile phone, following a gruesome scavenger hunt of clues to rescue one of his former Army buddies, only to discover he’d imagined the whole thing in a massive PTSD breakdown.

  It was grossly out of tune with any kind of reality facing returned service members, so much so that it had won a place as one of the most infamous B films in recent memory. It swept the Razzies, even in categories it hadn’t been officially nominated for. It had horrible practical and special effects that were used as for the love of God, don’t do this filmmaking tutorials on social media. It was so badly written it had become an entire series of memes. And that was all before Greasy Ferret, Jr. tried to defend it to the media, where he was ripped to shreds as he deserved.

  Mentioning that movie was the worst possible thing the poor guy could have done, even though he was trying to be supportive. He had no idea who Atlas was, or what teams he’d served on during his time in the Marines. Atlas was the real thing, complete with actual PTSD and physical damage from his service. Ferret was a skid mark in Hollywood’s tighty-whities by comparison, and he knew it.

  His smile stretched so thin Atlas suspected it would pop like a soap bubble at the slightest disturbance.

  “I appreciate your support,” Ferret told the fan before looking obviously toward the empty space behind the man’s shoulder.

  God, Atlas hated working for assholes like this. But a paycheck was a paycheck, and he wasn’t in a place to turn down some of the miserable jobs that crossed Bea’s desk at Whitethorn.

  He cleared his throat and offered the effusive fan a low, “If we could please keep the line moving.”

  The confused fan glanced over his shoulder at the nonexistent line, looked back at Atlas and his migraine-induced scowl, and slunk away. Great. Now Atlas felt like a douchebag.

  “A lot of people liked that movie,” Ferret said to Atlas, as if Atlas had insulted the film. “A lot of people said it would have been better received if Hollywood wasn’t full of liberal hacks who gatekeep true talent.”

  Atlas did his best to tune out Ferret’s further rantings and watched the crowd passing instead. Very few of them even looked Greasy Ferret, Jr.’s way. Most were focused on their food, or examining items for sale in stalls, or counting tickets to see what midway games they could play. Every now and then, someone’s attention would drift to him. Some of it was curiosity. He expected that, since there was no real reason to see a formally dressed security agent at a local fair. Some of it was more invasive. Every lingering, hungry glance sent his way made him want to reach up and check his shirt collar to confirm it still hid his scars. Worse still were the moments when someone would slow as they passed him, subtly trying to catch his eye. He didn’t know how to respond to those interactions. He’d had a few no-
strings trysts since his release from the hospital, but they were usually about quick, mutual satisfaction that didn’t require him to take his clothes off and bare his scars. He didn’t like being on display, and liked it even less when Greasy Ferret, Jr. noticed the interest from the occasional passersby and started in on tales about his own sexual conquests in a bizarre attempt to save face.

  The remaining two hours of his shift crawled by. There weren’t enough visitors to their booth to keep Greasy Ferret, Jr. in check. The crowds were changing from families to teens and college kids showing up for the evening’s events. One of the night’s bands was starting to warm up at the amphitheater. They attempted to play classic rock covers. What they lacked in talent, they made up for in volume, and Atlas’s migraine dug in a little deeper.

  He was full out nauseous by the time Ferret called it quits for the night.

  “I think it’s time to mingle,” Greasy Ferret, Jr. declared as he walked away from his booth. He didn’t bother to clean up anything and Atlas sent up a prayer for whatever poor assistant was saddled with the rancid carbuncle.

  “Have a good time,” Atlas replied. It was time to escape at last.

  “Hey, wait,” Ferret protested. “You’re not done yet.”

  Atlas checked his watch. “That’s incorrect. My shift ended three minutes ago.”

  “I hired you to protect me today,” Ferret said. “I’m not leaving yet, so you aren’t either.”

  Here we go, Atlas lamented silently. There was something uniquely disgusting about the arrogance that came with privilege, even more so when the privilege wasn’t earned and had been bought and paid for by the hour.

  Out loud, he said, “Thank you for working with Whitethorn. Have a nice evening.”

  He turned to leave, desperate to get to the parking lot and relative silence of his car. A hand settled on his shoulder, digging into his jacket and the scarred skin underneath. He reacted without thought, spinning free of the grip and landing a quick jab to the diaphragm of his attacker to gain space. A half second too late, he remembered who had grabbed hold of him. There was nothing he could do to take it back though.

  Greasy Ferret, Jr. staggered away, gasping and choking. “You—fucker,” he wheezed. “I’m reporting that!”

  Goddamn it. Bea was going to be pissed.

  “That’s your prerogative, sir,” Atlas said, channeling the few remaining ounces of patience he had left. And then, because Ferret made a rude hand gesture at him, he added, “But in the future I would suggest taking greater care when physically interacting with discharged service members who saw active combat. Not all of us can handle our PTSD like you did in that movie.”

  He walked away then, waiting until he was out of Greasy Ferret, Jr.’s line of sight to pull out his cell phone. He grimaced, but hit Bea’s number and waited for her to pick up. The moment she did, he said, “I need you to know, he started it,” before settling in for the lecture he was about to get.

  * * *

  He shouldn’t have been surprised to find Bea in his apartment when he got back. She had a key, after all. They’d agreed that she should be able to access the apartment in case of an emergency and, to her credit, she rarely visited without warning. She’d been actively working to give him more space during his recovery.

  She still slipped sometimes. Now, for instance. She must have headed over as soon as they hung up because she’d clearly made herself at home while he was gone. Her purse and heels were abandoned by the door and her nylon-clad feet were tucked up under her as she sat in the corner seat of his ancient couch. Her short, dark hair was swept away from her face and she was still wearing her power makeup, which meant she’d had an important meeting earlier. It made her narrowed-eye inspection of him a little more intimidating.

  “Food’s on the counter,” she said.

  He grunted and toed off his shoes. Bea had already drawn the blackout curtains, so his eyes didn’t have to strain so hard against the fading sunlight outside. He peeled out of his jacket and tie on the way to his tiny kitchenette and draped the clothes on the lone chair of his flimsy dining room set, but bypassed the open containers of takeout in favor of his migraine meds. Bea said nothing as he took the rest of his dose. She waited for him to turn around and take in the spread before warning, “If I’d known you were feeling this way, I would have stuck to something less aromatic.”

  Atlas shook his head and grabbed a plate. “I could be dying and I’d still try to eat this.”

  The lamb kofta called his name. He served up a small portion. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to keep it down, but it had been so damn long since he could afford takeout, and Bea had even sprung for his favorite restaurant. He glanced over at her. “Don’t take this the wrong way, because I’m really glad you brought this with you, but it seems a little odd to reward me for today’s fuck up.”

  “It isn’t a reward,” Bea assured him. Once he sat, she headed over to grab her own meal. “And I haven’t fielded a call from him yet.”

  “That’s a relief,” Atlas mumbled. Louder, he said, “You’ll want to add him to our blacklist.”

  “Oh?”

  “He’s an asshole. And he tried to manipulate the contract at the end of my shift.”

  “I’ll make a note of it tomorrow,” she promised. A few minutes later, she’d resettled in her seat with her dinner.

  They ate in comfortable silence for a while before Atlas actually processed Bea’s earlier statement. “Wait. This isn’t a reward, so what is it?”

  His older sister gave him a sweet smile and sucked some borani off her thumb. He wrinkled his nose in distaste, which made her laugh, and got up to grab her a napkin. She caught it when he tossed it to her, then made a show of wiping off her hands before admitting, “It’s a bribe. Is it working?”

  “Why would you need to bribe me?”

  “I need you on a temporary contract.”

  Her honesty didn’t make him feel any better. Bea’s security agency, Whitethorn, was well respected and booked well in advance. She’d grown the agency from the ground up, working her way into more prestigious and expensive contracts as the years went on. Openings for new agents were rare, since no one wanted to leave. And three years ago, well after he’d gotten back stateside, Whitethorn had won a lucrative contract with a major investment group who owned a number of critical companies throughout Scarsdale. It was a coup for a relatively small agency in upstate New York that had been vying against metropolitan agencies in several states, but Bea’s competence and knowledge of local matters had given her an unbeatable edge. So if she was asking him for help, she was facing a true cluster.

  He sat back down. “What’s the contract?”

  Bea rested her clean plate on her knee and tapped a finger against the couch arm. “Have you heard of Decebal Vladislavic?”

  Atlas wracked his memory. He’d heard the name before in the news, but he hadn’t paid much attention. “Yeah, but I don’t remember why.”

  “He’s the financial power behind Scarsdale’s revitalization.”

  Atlas frowned. “You mean its gentrification.”

  Bea waved her hand, either to dismiss or to acknowledge and move past his phrasing. “He’s got his fingers in everything in this town. Medical, entertainment, housing, the whole thing. I’ve worked with him for a couple of years now—”

  “The contract that put you on the map,” Atlas put together. “That was his contract?”

  Bea nodded. “Whitethorn’s success is directly tied to Mr. Vladislavic, though strictly in a business sense.”

  He felt something dip in his gut, a weighty foreboding at what was coming next.

  “That’s changed recently.”

  “God, Bea, don’t tell me you started fucking the guy.”

  Bea kicked him. Her speed was impressive, as was her ability to secure her plate before it smashed to the ground
. “That’s for insinuating I’d break the rule,” Bea said calmly while Atlas rubbed his aching hip.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled. He actually was. Bea had a strict policy prohibiting romantic or sexual entanglements between clients and Whitethorn employees. “I know you wouldn’t do that.”

  Bea sniffed, but carried on, which meant Atlas was forgiven for the moment. “A few months ago, Decebal contacted me. There have been some...complications with recent business deals and he needed an agent to provide security at home.”

  “You have plenty of agents who could do that job,” Atlas pointed out. “Why do you need me for it?”

  “It’s a delicate situation. There are some unusual circumstances about the position.” Tap tap tap went Bea’s finger. “And because none of my agents want the job. Todd just stepped away from it tonight.”

  Todd was a rock, an unflappable, boring, yet competent agent. He never stepped away from jobs.

  Atlas ran a hand through his hair and leaned back into the couch. “Shit.”

  “Yes. Shit.”

  “Well,” he said, motioning for Bea to continue, “tell me more.”

  “The pay is top level.”

  “Always a good thing.”

  “You’d be working night shifts.”

  That bit of bait was tempting. His stupid sleeping habits hadn’t shifted back, even after he’d cycled off the various drugs he’d taken to aid his physical recovery. At this point, the doctors doubted he’d ever return to his former circadian rhythm. Night shifts aligned to his needs quite well.

  She kept going. “Decebal is willing to work with your sensory sensitivity.”

  Impossible. Clients wanted someone to be at their side at big events, or during shopping trips, or while eating at restaurants catering to influencers. There was no way in hell Atlas could do any of that, especially not when his migraines were acting up.

  “That’s too good to be true,” Atlas said flatly, refusing to grasp at the faint scrap of hope she’d floated his way.