Jason: Mastiff Security Volume Two, #2

By Glenna Sinclair

This is the second book of Mastiff Security Volume Two, with over 50,000 words of romantic suspense.

 

His arm in traction and his life in ruins, he found comfort in only one thing: an old iPod with a Kat Carlisle album downloaded on it. Her voice pulled him out of his own head and set him on a path that was filled with less destruction than the one he'd been on.

 

Two years later, Jason Stine is working for Mastiff on a case in which a movie star, Colt Murphy, has become convinced that someone is out to kill him. On his first day on the set, Jason discovers that Kat Carlisle is the love interest in the movie. Not only that, but the accidents that were supposedly meant for Colt actually come closer to taking Kat out.

 

Suddenly, Jason finds himself spending more time with this woman—this voice—that saved his life. And the more time he spends with her, the more infatuated with everything about her he becomes. Can he save the woman who saved him without losing himself in her completely?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Glenna Sinclair
• Release date: Jan 22, 2018
• ISBN: 9798224448494

Glenna Sinclair

Experience the heart-racing novels of Glenna Sinclair, the master of romantic suspense. Sinclair's books feature strong male protagonists, many with a military background, who face real-world challenges that will keep you on the edge of your seat. Books2read.com/GlennaSinclair Facebook.com/AuthorGlennaSinclair GlennaSinclairAuthor at Gmail dot com

Book preview

Prologue

––––––––

Fort Benning

––––––––

Outside Columbus, Georgia

––––––––

2015...

––––––––

Staring up at the ceiling was getting quite boring. Staring at his arm, the pins and wires and bandages like something out of a horror film, wasn’t much better. He couldn’t get out of bed and walk around, couldn’t go for a run, couldn’t shower, couldn’t even piss on his own. This confinement was beginning to drive him out of his mind.

He was a man who was used to being active. He should have been in the field with his unit, should have been fighting the enemy of these glorious United States. He should have been doing anything but lying in a bed with his arm hanging from ropes attached to the ceiling, a tube in a place no man should ever have a tube.

They said he was lucky. Said it could have been much worse.

He couldn’t imagine anything worse than this.

A pretty girl in jeans and a blouse that was too tight and too short for his comfort had come into the room yesterday and tried to interest him in a bunch of gossip magazines. Like she thought a soldier would be interested in such ridiculousness! She held up a novel she swore was the bomb these days, a bestseller everyone was reading. They were even making a movie about it in Hollywood. Like that was impressive to him. He might be a country bumpkin, but nothing had ever come out of Hollywood that had truly impressed him.

She seemed desperate to find something to draw him out, to make him speak to her. Maybe they had some sort of bet going on out at the nurse’s station. Fifty bucks to the first person to get him to utter a word. He wasn’t interested in playing along, didn’t care about their concern. They weren’t the ones lying in this bed, waiting for the moment when the doctor came through the door and said they could do nothing more to save his arm, for the moment they told him they wanted to amputate. He would die if they did that.

What was a man without his arms? What was a soldier without his trigger finger?

They weren’t the ones who relived that moment in his dreams night after night, the moment the IED went off under the Humvee he was riding in. They weren’t the ones who remembered the joke Shaw was telling as the IED ignited underneath them and sent the entire vehicle flying into the air. They weren’t the ones who saw laughter turn to horror in an instant, who saw limbs torn from bodies, who saw his friends torn to pieces in an instant. They weren’t the ones who should be back there, finding the people responsible for that instant.

He needed to get out of this bed. He needed his hand to work. He needed to go back.

Try this, the girl had finally said, holding out a small pink iPod. It was mine, but I don’t use it anymore. I have my phone and Spotify, and it just isn’t necessary anymore, you know. She smiled kind of shyly. There’s not much music on it right now, but you can ask one of the nurses to hook you up to a computer and iTunes, if you want.

When he ignored her, she laid the device on a side table, the wires of a set of earbuds wrapped around it.

I hope you feel better, she finally said with a slight sigh, her fingers brushing against the hot skin of his good arm. He watched her walk away, thinking her ass was probably the best sight he’d seen in months. But then there was that tube...

He turned his head, looking to see if the device was still there. Music might be better than the drivel being broadcast on daytime cable. He could only watch Judge Judy so many times, you know?

He tugged the device toward him and managed to get the wire unwrapped from around it, slipping the earbuds into his ears with the one hand. He lifted it up and began scrolling through the music library. She was right, there wasn’t much on it. A couple of songs from someone called G-Eazy, a few from a group called Twenty-One Pilots, and then an entire album by Kat Carlisle.

Not his kind of music. He preferred Jason Aldean, Blake Shelton. Throw in a George Strait album, and he was perfect. But he couldn’t expect a teen volunteer at a base hospital to listen to that sort of stuff, he supposed.

He almost tossed the device back onto the side table, but decided music he wasn’t familiar with was better than absolute silence and his own thoughts.

He turned on the Kat Carlisle album. The first song started, the melody low and slow, the kind of music he imagined suicidal girls liked to listen to when they were home alone. He vaguely remembered one of the guys in his squad mentioning Kat Carlisle. Toliver. He’d thought she was hot. But then again, Toliver thought everything in a skirt was hot.

But then she began to sing, and...he could learn to like this sort of music.

His grandmother used to say this thing: That child has the voice of an angel. He’d never appreciated what she meant until he heard Kat Carlisle sing.

It wasn’t like this great epiphany. It didn’t cure his arm or take away his guilt. Her songs were beautiful and morose and the perfect soundtrack to his life in that moment. But they didn’t change his circumstances. They just made it more bearable.

And that was enough.

Chapter 1

––––––––

Mastiff Security Offices

––––––––

Los Angeles, California

––––––––

Durango felt eyes on him as he walked through the lobby of Mastiff’s Los Angeles offices, aware of support staff watching him, wondering what he was doing there. He nodded to the security guard and made his way to the elevator, stabbing his finger against the up button. When he turned slightly, he caught a couple of secretaries standing not far behind him, whispering behind their hands like they thought he couldn’t see or hear them.

Morning, ladies.

Morning, Mr. Masters, they both said in perfect unison. It was almost amusing.

He wasn’t surprised that they knew who he was. He was a little curious about why they were so interested in his presence. It wasn’t like he hadn’t visited these offices multiple times since they opened their doors nearly three months ago.

The elevator doors opened, and he climbed aboard. Coming? he asked to the secretaries.

No, sir. You go ahead.

He stepped back, jabbing his finger once again against the appropriate button. He stood with his hands behind his back and watched the numbers move over the door. When the doors opened again on the fourth floor, the executive floor, he discovered what all the whispering and curiosity had been about.

Jackson Chamberlain, Hollywood producer of innumerable blockbusters, was standing in front of the reception desk, leaning against it as he charmed the young brunette who sat behind it.

Aren’t you married? he asked, moving up beside the tall man.

Married. Not dead. Jackson straightened up, shifting his weight to the thin cane he held in his left hand. You’re late.

Am I? Durango tilted his head slightly. I think you’re just early.

Durango, a woman’s voice called to them from the long corridor that stretched off to the left of the reception area, how have you been?

Durango stepped around the old man and accepted the outstretched hands of Wren Ryland, kissing her cheek lightly. How are you?

She smiled as she pulled back and gestured for him to follow her down the corridor. I’m doing quite well. We’ve been very busy around here, thanks to the notoriety we gained after the Klein case. But it’s a good kind of busy.

I can imagine.

Durango found himself glancing into offices that had been empty on his last visit. He was happy that things were going so well, but knew he didn’t deserve much of the credit. Wren was a very capable administrator, and she’d done a great job running the place these past few months.

He glanced behind him, making sure the old man was following. But, as if he couldn’t help himself, Jackson kept stopping to greet every woman they passed, even the ones minding their own business in their offices. Durango just shook his head, aware there was no point in chastising the old guy. It would only make him more determined to aggravate.

Wren reached the door to her own office and stepped to one side to wave Durango inside. A tall, clean-shaven man dressed in business attire stood when he entered, a nervousness suggested in the slight shake of his hand when he lifted it to greet Durango.

Mr. Masters, it’s a pleasure to meet you.

And you are?

This is Andres Maldonado, our new head of operations, Wren said, coming over to join them.

Andres Maldonado, the same Andres who was the operative who was on the Klein case?

I was.

You did an impressive job. Thank you.

Andres smiled, some color coming into his cheeks. Clearly, he was not a man who was used to compliments.

Jackson joined them a second later, a big grin on his charming face. Wren seemed taken by him despite her professional demeanor, offering him a smile that was bigger than his. Durango was almost jealous. He’d never gotten quite as pleased a look from her. But then again, Jackson never got the same sort of pleased look from Gracie that Durango got, so it all came out in the wash.

Just thinking about Gracie made Durango want to hurry this meeting up. He was due to meet his girlfriend downtown for lunch in less than an hour.

Father, he said, addressing Jackson, why don’t you stop flirting with everyone and have a seat. We should tell them why we’re here so that they can get on with their business.

If I must, Jackson said, taking Wren’s hand and leaning heavily on her as she led him to a chair. The old man was such a faker. He didn’t even need the cane anymore, according to his doctor. But he liked the way people fussed all over him when he walked through a door with it.

Wren helped him to his seat and asked if anyone wanted something to drink. Of course Jackson had to have an expensive bottle of imported water, like the cases and cases of bottled water from the local Costco that he drank at home didn’t mean a thing. Wren got the water, and then they finally settled down, the four of them sitting in something of a circle, facing each other.

As I told you on the phone, Wren, Durango began, I have something of a case for you. Or, rather, my father here has a case for you.

Durango gestured to Jackson, who hesitated, his eyes moving over the extra bit of leg Wren’s skirt revealed when she sat. Durango jabbed him with his elbow to remind him, once again, that he was a married man.

We are in the process of filming a new movie, Jackson announced. My production company has put a hell of a lot of time and money into this flick. It’s an action thing starring Colt Murphy.

Andres seemed impressed. The actor from the Ayers Chronicles?

Jackson lowered his head slightly. The one and only.

Good movies.

Thanks, Jackson said, taking credit for them, as he should. They were his babies, a trilogy of movies he had produced himself.

What is the problem? Wren asked, clearly unsure what everyone was talking about. She must not be much of a moviegoer.

It’s Murphy, Durango told her. He’s been getting death threats.

All actors get death threats, Jackson said, dismissing Durango’s statement as too simple. In fact, everyone involved in the movie business gets death threats. I got one this morning from someone who didn’t like the way Ayers died in the last movie.

Wren’s eyebrows went up. I guess I don’t need to go see those.

Jackson reached over and touched her knee. Sorry. Didn’t mean to ruin it for you.

She shrugged. Don’t worry about it. I’m more of a film noir kind of girl, anyway.

Oh, yes, Orson Welles was a genius.

She smiled brightly. He was, wasn’t he?

Durango cleared his throat. Jackson glanced at him, clearly annoyed with the constant interruptions when, in reality, it was Jackson interrupting the narrative here.

The threats Colt’s been getting are a little more sinister than the usual stuff, Jackson finally continued. They’re somewhat specific. The person sending these emails and texts keeps telling him that he will suffer an accident on set. And there have been a few minor accidents. A prop gun misfired, a set wall fell over, stuff like that. It’s got Colt a little spooked.

You want us to provide him with security?

Durango moved in at that question. We want you to put a team on him, both at his house and the studio.

We can do that, Wren said, glancing at Andres.

Andres nodded. We can put a team of four at his house, twenty-four-seven, and a team of three, plus a team leader, on him at the studio.

Great.

I think this would be a great assignment for Stevie, Wren added.

Stevie? Jackson looked at Durango with raised eyebrows. Durango tilted his head slightly, gesturing for his father to keep his mouth shut. But, of course, the old man couldn’t possibly do that. Stevie Wayne? She works here?

You know her? Wren asked.

Better than I know my own son.

He glanced at Durango again. Again, Durango moved his head, hoping his father would get the message and shut the hell up, but the man was oblivious to everything.

Stevie spent most of her childhood in my kitchen. I think she knows it better than I ever will. I still can’t find the damn pizza cutter.

Probably because Cindy hid it so that you wouldn’t eat pizza, Father. Durango stood up. You handle the case however you see fit. But the sooner you get security in place, the sooner Colt Murphy will feel safe to return to set, and the sooner my father will stop calling me up complaining about his lost revenues.

It is costly to have him sidelined for so long, Jackson reminded Durango.

Durango rolled his eyes.

Wren stood and shook both their hands. Thank you for trusting us with this assignment.

There’s no one else he’d allow me to go to, Jackson told her. He’s very proud of what you all have done around here. He’s almost got his people back in Illinois jumping ship with all the boasting he’s done about you!

Wren smiled brightly. Well, I don’t want to cause anarchy, but we’re doing our best to keep the name Mastiff one people can trust.

You’re doing an awesome job, Wren, just like I knew you would. Durango touched her