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“Malachi,” Quinn says in my earpiece, “two o’clock. Possible threat. Male.”
I turn subtly, my eyes locking onto a figure moving through the crowd with too much purpose. Quinn’s instincts are rarely wrong. Like a bloodhound, he always sniffs out trouble.
“I see him,” I murmur, signaling Dash and Zane.
Dash moves first, intercepting the man with practiced ease, his hand firm on the stranger’s shoulder. Zane appears at Dash’s side, his casual demeanor a stark contrast to the tension in his eyes.
“Sir, you need to step back,” Dash rumbles authoritatively, his voice low but commanding. “Can’t let anyone close to Mayor Hoe?—”
“Dash,” Quinn scolds his brother on the comms.
“Hargrove.” Dash brings out the charm, easing his purposeful fuckup.
The man hesitates, then nods, retreating into the crowd. Crisis averted for now. Frowning, I memorize the man—tall, gaunt, red hat. He’s probably looking for a restroom. Judging by his tattered shirt, I’m pretty sure he is homeless, and from here, I can see his bare skin devoid of any weapons.
“Harmless, but keep an eye on him,” I instruct Quinn before looking away. I have complete trust in him that he will keep eyes on him, or at least one of the many surveillance systems he has placed through the park.
Hargrove continues his speech, oblivious to the minor drama unfolding, but that’s our job—to handle the threats he can’t see and ensure the safety of those who rely on us, even if they don’t know it.
I catch Zane’s eye again. His head is cocked to the side as though he’s listening to something I can’t hear from here.
Quinn buzzes in my ear again. “Oh, fun incoming, Malachi. We have some movement near the entrance. Looks like the guy is a journalist.” The entrance to the park is wide open. Honestly, it’s a terrible place for a rally. There are too many open spaces and too many possibilities where things could go wrong.
“My favorite,” Zane coos, his hand on his gun.
Unhinged. The lot of them.
The breeze carries a medley of scents—freshly cut grass, the sugary sweetness of popcorn, and the underlying musk of the gathered crowd. The rustle of leaves and the low murmur of voices create a deceptively peaceful backdrop to our tense vigilance. I take a deep breath, grounding myself in the moment. The tension in the air is almost palpable, a static charge waiting to ignite. The sun beats down on us, casting harsh shadows and making the air shimmer with heat.
“Patience, gentlemen,” I murmur into the comms, my voice a calm anchor amidst the tension. “Dash, stop fidgeting. Zane, ease up on that death glare. We’re protectors, not executioners.”
“Spoilsport,” Dash mutters, but I catch the smirk in his voice.
“Focus,” Zane rumbles, but his posture relaxes slightly.
Dash nods, his eyes never stopping their relentless scan. Zane adjusts his stance, the picture of relaxed vigilance. We might be protecting a man we don’t respect, but our professionalism never wavers. The city is on edge, but we are an invisible line of defense.
I shift my weight, feeling the reassuring press of my concealed weapon against my side. The crowd’s murmurs fade into the background, replaced by the rhythmic thud of my heartbeat in my ears. Every sense is heightened, every nerve on edge. This part of the job is absolutely boring, standing around watching and waiting.
I’d rather something or someone start a fight. At least it would make time go a little faster.
I nod at Zane, who’s already shifting his position to get a better vantage point. Dash engages the people around him, his charm diffusing any tension that may crop up. It’s moments like these that remind me why we work so well together.
As I watch Zane smoothly intercept the approaching reporter, I’m reminded of our days working the streets of Puritan City. We’ve come a long way from those desperate times, but the skills we honed then serve us well now. Every move Zane makes is a testament to years of watching each other’s backs.
Quinn would climb the fire escape of the tallest building downtown. We always rotated, making sure we didn’t hit the same spot twice in one month. I’d lean against a wall, eating something, as I looked for the perfect prey. Dash would go out, because as the youngest, he often got away with far more than us older kids, and his baby face got us more cash than I want to even delve into.
Zane was the muscle. If anything went wrong, and it often did, he got us the hell out of there.
It was a scheme we ran more often than we should have, but I don’t regret it. It kept us fed, put clothing on our backs, and kept us together.
Our protection services came about by accident a few years ago when we were in a crowd very similar to this one with a very different outcome. A shooter and a politician created the business that feeds us today. I can say we were crafted through blood, sweat, and tears from that day—one I despise remembering, even though the ache in my shoulder reminds me about it often enough.
“Malachi, here they come.” Quinn’s urgent voice slices through my thoughts. “They really think they can just muscle their way through.” He chuckles.
“Got them on scope,” I respond, locking onto the approaching targets. They are moving with purpose. “Zane, Dash, stay alert.”
Zane shifts, his eyes narrowed as he watches the figures closing in from the west. Dash readies himself, coiled like a spring, eager for any sign of trouble. He practically grins at the prospect of a scuffle. The crowd disperses gradually as Mayor Hargrove finishes speaking, but unease lingers in my gut.
