Exit Strategy (11 page)

“Any idea what he wants?”

“He’s here to serve papers, sir.”

“Papers... as in a subpoena?”

“That would be my guess, Mr. White.”

“Can’t you just sign for them and send him away?”

“I tried that before I buzzed you, sir.”

Tristan grumbles a silent expletive.
Shit!
He has too much to do to stop and play nice with Cook County’s finest.

“Escort him into my office in thirty seconds,” he says and then hangs up unceremoniously, as he’s been wont to do since he’d become a Dom without a submissive. If Darryl’s taken offense to his newly adopted attitude, he hasn’t complained.

Tristan stands and slips his suit jacket back on, rolls shoulders stiff from sitting in one position since six a.m., and then adjusts his collar and pulls down his sleeves. Darryl enters at the thirty-second mark, exactly, and ushers the officer in.

“Deputy Sheriff Wick Carlson to see you, Mr. White,” Darryl announces as if he’s introducing a head of state.

“Thanks, Darryl.”

Tristan puts on his million-dollar, cordial smile, which of late does not reach his eyes, and offers his hand to the officer.

“Tristan White, Deputy Carlson. How can I help you?”

Deputy Carlson smiles in response and hands him an envelope. “This is a subpoena for you to appear as a material witness in the matter of the State of Illinois versus Byron Oswald McCaskill.”

“How does one respond to such a thing? Thank you?”

“That’ll do nicely,” Deputy Carlson says. “I won’t take up any more of your time, sir. Have a nice day.”

“You, too.”

The Deputy turns on his heel and leaves as Tristan opens the envelope and peruses the legal document.

“Oswald is a good goddamned name for a criminal,” he mutters to himself and sits back down to try and get some work done.

The last he heard from Karen Southerland, his lawyer friend—who is also a Domme he’d done group play with in his wilder days—the trial would be scheduled for April, but this court date is March eleventh, the Monday after Clara Lee and Pastor Johnson’s wedding. His next thought is of Keisha. He wonders how she will handle having to get on the witness stand and tell her story to a jury of McCaskill’s peers.

Damn, he doesn’t want her to have to go through this alone, now that they’re estranged, of sorts. He hadn’t called her since she left his condo more three weeks ago, and she hadn’t called him until a couple of days ago when he’d gone to KSR and found her frolicking with the guitar player. And judging by the chemistry she had with Guitar Guy...

He doesn’t even like thinking of how he had gone to talk to Keisha about his struggles with PTSD and to share his triggers with her, hoping to get her to come clean about her own, only to find her smiling and dancing with some new guitar player he’d never noticed at KSR before. It seems Keisha didn’t waste any time replacing him. So why is he having such a hard time replacing her?

Tristan pushes the Huáng contract aside, realizing he’s read the same paragraph several times over and is still not sure he’s grasped it. His focus is way the hell off, and he knows exactly why.

He needs some time in his Grotto. As a stopgap until he can frequent the exclusive Fetish Noir club in person and find a replacement organically, he’s asked the owner of the BDSM club, who is a trusted friend, to send some applications his way. None of the applicants have struck his fancy by any stretch of the imagination, and he’s not prepared to admit that this is because none of them were Keisha.

Tristan opens up another confidential letter, glances at it, and then takes the time to read it. He assumed the unmarked envelope with no return address was another submissive application, but this is something wholly different. Careful not to handle it too much in case he smudges the sender’s fingerprints, he reads it again.

“It’s time for you to pay. You’ve rested on the laurels of your entitlement for too long and used too many women. You know how it feels to lose someone, so I’m going to make sure you feel that pain again and again, until you know what it feels like to be me. If I were you, I’d watch your little café au lait arm candy and anyone else you care about.”

Tristan feels a cold, numbing dread when the message from the tormenter singles out Keisha. He may not be her Dom anymore, but he can’t ignore this threat. He has a flight to Hong Kong scheduled to leave in eight hours, so he’ll alert Nathan and his father, who already have some level of security, and secure Keisha’s safety before he leaves US soil.

Tristan welcomes Darryl’s next interruption over the intercom. “Mr. Velasquez is here, Mr. White.”

“Thanks, Darryl. Send him in.”

Carlos Velasquez, his security chief, walks in and stands at attention in front of Tristan’s desk. Velasquez’s bearing is the first indication of his military background. But if you get to know him very well, as in through an altercation, his particular skill at meting out pain tells you he was Special Forces.

“Have a seat, Velasquez.”

Velasquez reacts as if he’s said, “At ease, soldier.” The security expert relaxes and takes a seat. His black eyes reflect his training. He’s on high alert.

Tristan grasps the note on one corner and slides it across the desk. Velasquez reads it quickly and then looks up at Tristan again.

“You want to treat this as a credible threat?”

“You’re goddamned right I do. I want extra security details for Nathan, my father, Aimee Gabriel, and 24-7 security, undetected, on Keisha Beale.”

“Forgive my temerity, but why undetected, sir? Having her aware might make it easier.”

“I don’t want to unduly frighten her or give her the right of refusal. Our relationship right now is... tenuous at best, and I don’t have the luxury of time to convince her she needs what amounts to the Secret Service following her around all the damn time.”

“Got it, sir.”

“I want elite personnel on this. Not that fucking rent-a-cop who let McCaskill shake his tail so easily. Spare no expense.”

The only indication that Velasquez was embarrassed by the slip McCaskill had given his man was a slight reddening around the tips of his ears. “I know just the team for the job, sir.”

“Good. Have the team you put on Nathan coordinate with security at all the USABA venues. Any Internet-savvy halfwit is privy to his schedule. Borrow some personnel from the club in the meantime. Can you have everything else in place in eight hours or less?”

“With the budget you’ve just approved, I’ll have them in place in four.” Carlos gestures toward the letter. “I’m going to run this for prints and possible trace evidence.” He reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a pair of latex gloves, dons them, and retrieves a folded plastic evidence envelope, in which he slips the letter. Then he rises and says, “I’ll fast-track this through a friend at Quantico and collaborate with the Chicago PD if we get a hit. Should your assistant receive anything further while you’re gone, or if any member of your family’s or Ms. Beale’s safety is compromised, we’ll adjust security needs accordingly.”

“Notify the detail on Ms. Gabriel that she may be making a permanent move as early as today, and in that case, you’ll be needed to design a complete security overhaul for her new location.  Thanks, Carlos.”

He walks Velasquez out and says, “Darryl, my office.”

His thoughts race a million miles a minute. Someone is plotting against him and the people closest to him, but what that fucker doesn’t know is that he protects what’s his at all costs.

“Yes, Mr. White?” Darryl says.

“I’d like you to call Kincaid in the real estate division and find out if the condo immediately below mine is still vacant. I have a new tenant I’ll be moving in today. I want it made completely handicap accessible. If Kincaid needs direction, he’s to contact Dr. Enid Daschle for specifics.” He rifles through a business card file and holds two of them out to Darryl. “Kincaid and his staff should work with Janet Hathaway on the furnishings and so forth. I want everything to be state-of-the-art, with every bell and whistle imaginable. This is a need-to-know project, so if Kincaid or anyone else asks any questions, direct them to me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Also, call Landau’s office and have them alert the folks at the Buffaloes training center that I have an urgent matter to relay to my brother. If you can’t convince them, get Velasquez to call.”

“Consider it done, Mr. White.”

~*~

Tristan has never been to the Buffaloes Range Center training facility in Deerfield in the ten years Nate’s been in the league, but this is a matter of some urgency, and he won’t be deterred by the security personnel who seem hell-bent on denying him access.

“What’s the nature of your business again, sir?”

Tristan bristles but answers him in an even, clipped tone. “Nathan White is my twin brother. Look at my face. I’m sure you’ve seen him every day for however many years you’ve been working here. I have news of a grave personal security matter I need to speak with him about. If he hasn’t already, my security chief will be in contact with yours. I have Terry Landau on speed dial. If I call him, I won’t be particularly complimentary.”

The security officer leans down and looks closely at Tristan. “Well, you do look a lot like him.” Then the walkie talkie crackles. “
Commence red cape security protocol. Tristan White is cleared to enter the facility undetained when he arrives.
”

“Sorry, Mr. White,” the guard says and snaps to attention. “Your driver may proceed through the gate to the practice gym.”

“Thank you.” Tristan zips his window shut without another word. He’s unaccustomed to being denied, but he’s secretly relieved security is on the ball. This level of security would be fine if they were dealing with a civilian, but for a hired pro, more highly trained personnel would need to be in place.

“I shouldn’t be long,” Tristan says to Moses as he exits the limo.

“Yes, sir.”

After a discreet call by the receptionist and a two-minute wait, Nate comes out to the foyer to greet him, still in his practice uniform and so drenched in perspiration that his hair is dark and hanging close to his scalp. He’s got a
what the fuck?
expression on his face, but he’s still grinning. Tristan gives him all the smile he can muster.

“Is Dad okay?” Nate asks anxiously.

Tristan holds up both hands in a calming gesture. “I just left him. He’s fine.”

“So, to what do I owe this unexpected visit?”

“I got a threatening letter this morning from someone who’s targeting people I care about. I wanted to let you know personally before I leave for Hong Kong. I’ve got Velasquez pulling together some security details for you, Dad, and Keisha.”

“Keisha was threatened, too?”

“It’s not surprising, given that the public believes she’s my girlfriend.”

“Oh, I know that... but Jada got a call from Keisha while she was at my place a couple nights ago. Some masked guy in an SUV rolled up on her at KSR. Jada went back home to be with her.”

Tristan’s stomach lurches, and it’s as if he can feel the blood draining from his face. His heart escalates from normal to racing within seconds. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“I had nothing to connect it to. Until now it seemed random, and I didn’t want to worry you.”

Tristan’s own heartbeat, labored breathing, and the ringing in his ears are drowning out Nathan’s voice. He employs his breathing technique, but the attack may have progressed too far for him to stop it.

“Hey, bro, you all right?” Nate says louder, and Tristan notices he’s eyeing him with concern. He concentrates on his breathing and scrambles quickly to loosen his tie. Nate steps into his personal space and supports him as he reels, gasping for breath.

“Get a trainer out here. Now!” Nate yells. “Have him bring O2.” As the receptionist makes the call, Nate maneuvers him to a sofa and helps him sit.

The ache in Tristan’s chest has morphed into serious pain, and that’s the last thing he’s aware of until he comes to with Nate and a stranger hovering over him.

He moves to sit up, but the stranger says, “You might want to lie there for a second. By the way, I’m Dave, one of the trainers here.”

Tristan relaxes for half a minute before sitting up and removing the oxygen mask from his face. “I’ve got to go. I have a flight to Hong Kong in less than six hours . . .”

Nate kneels to be on eye-level with him. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

“Yeah, you should go see your personal physician, Mr. White,” Dave says.

Tristan doesn’t say anything for a few seconds while he thinks it through. He got a letter that morning threatening his family, and someone tried to accost Keisha at her studio a couple of nights before. Not to mention his panic attacks are back. His trip to Hong Kong might require postponing until this matter is resolved, or at the very least, stabilized.