14 Fearless Fourteen Read Free

street name is Ranger, a leftover
from his time in Special Forces.
    When I started working for Vincent Plum Bail Bonds, Ranger was
doing mostly bounty hunter work and was my mentor. He's now
co-owner of a security company with branches in Boston, Atlanta,
and Miami. He wears only black, he smells like Bulgari Green shower
gel, he's extremely private, and he eats healthy
food.
    I'd be tempted to say he isn't a lot of fun, but he has his
moments. And on those rare occasions when we've been intimate...
WOW.
    Rangeman Security is on a side street in center city Trenton.
It's housed in an inconspicuous seven-story brick building, the
name visible only on a small plaque above the door buzzer. The
seventh floor is Ranger's private apartment.
    Two more floors are dedicated to housing Rangeman employees, one
floor is occupied by the property manager and his wife, Ella, the
fifth floor is control central, and the remaining two floors are
conference rooms, first-floor reception, and private offices. There
are two levels below ground and I've never gotten the personal
tour, but I imagine dungeons and armories and Ranger's personal
tailor toiling away.
    I key-fobbed my way into the underground garage and parked next
to Ranger's black Porsche Turbo. I took the elevator to the fifth
floor, waved hello to the guys at the monitoring stations, and
walked across the room to Ranger's office. The door was open, and
Ranger was at his desk, talking on a headset.
    His eyes went to me, he wrapped up his conversation and removed
the headset.
    “Babe,” he said.
    Babe covered a lot of ground with Ranger. It could be good, bad,
amused, or filled with desire. Today it was hello.
    I sat in the chair across from his desk. “What's
up?”
    “I need a date,” Ranger said.
    “Is date synonymous with sex?”
    “No. It's synonymous with business, but I could throw some sex
in as a bonus if you're interested.”
    This got a smile from me. I wasn't interested for a bunch of
complicated reasons, not the least of which was Joe Morelli. Still,
it was nice to know the offer was on the table. “What's the
business?”
    “I've been asked to provide security for Brenda.”
    “The Brenda? The singer?”
    “Yes. She'll be in town for three days doing a concert, some
media, and a charity fund-raiser. I'm supposed to keep her dry and
drug-free and out of harm's way. If I assign one of my men to her,
she'll eat him alive and spit him out in front of the press. So I'm
taking the watch, and I need someone riding
shotgun.”
    “What about Tank?”
    Tank is Ranger's next in command, and he's the guy Ranger trusts
to watch his back. Tank's called Tank because that's what he is.
He's seven feet of muscle packed into a six-foot, four-inch,
no-neck body. Tank is also Lula's current boyfriend.
    “Brenda's management team has requested security be invisible at
public functions, and it's hard to hide Tank,” Ranger said. “Tank
and Hal will work shifts standing guard at Brenda's hotel. When
she's at large, we'll take over. She can pass us off as traveling
companions, and you can go into the ladies' room with her and make
sure she doesn't test-drive mushrooms.”
    “Doesn't she have her own bodyguard?”
    “He slipped and broke his ankle getting off the plane last
night. They've shipped him back to California.”
    “I'm surprised you're taking this on.”
    “I'm doing it as a favor for Lew Pepper, the concert promoter.”
Ranger passed a sheet of paper to me. “This is Brenda's public
appearance schedule. We need to be at her hotel a half hour ahead.
And we're on call. If she leaves her room, we're
there.”
    I looked at the schedule and chewed on my lower lip. Morelli
wasn't going to be happy to have me spending this much time with
Ranger. And Brenda was a car crash. Like Cher and Madonna, she
didn't use a last name. Just Brenda. She was sixty-one years old.
She'd been married eight times. She could crack walnuts with her
ass muscles. And she was rumored to be mean