***
The next morning I waited by the front gate with Old Charlie and my very own bodyguard, who introduced himself as Gar. What kind of name is Gar?
Gar didn't talk much, but his rippled, veiny muscles, and a jaw so square it looked cartoonish, made him look scary—perfect for a bodyguard.
I clutched my overnight bag to my chest and shivered in the cool morning breeze. A limo arrived promptly at six and whisked me to the secret airstrip we used to fly to all of our assignments. The drive only took twenty minutes, and I never saw a highway or city sign, just trees and valleys of nothing.
Once there, Gar grabbed my overnight bag, but I strapped my backpack to my shoulders, not wanting to lose control of my most precious belongings. I boarded the Cessna Citation X, the world's fastest mid-sized jet, and sank into one of the plush leather seats.
I knew the drill: once we were airborne, Lollie, the stewardess, came to my seat with a needle balanced on a silver tray. I closed my eyes as she injected the drug into me, the one that would render me unconscious for the duration of my trip. This was for my protection, so I'd never be able to disclose the location of the Rent-A-Kid school. As always, it quelled any nervousness I had about the assignment.
My doubts and fears drifted away on a cloud, as darkness overcame me.
***
Something cool and soft tickled my forehead. My eyes pried themselves open as my head attempted to clear itself of the drug-induced fuzziness.
Lollie had her small hand pressed against my skin. "Time to wake up. We'll be at our destination in thirty minutes."
She handed me a cup of orange juice and a turkey sandwich and helped me get my seat into an upright position. The rush of sweet sugary fruit gave me clarity and a burst of energy. I tackled the sandwich like a man who hadn't eaten in a week—a common side effect of the drug.
With a few minutes to spare, I used the bathroom and brushed my teeth, then pulled my long brown hair into a bun. A quick touch-up to my lip gloss and a bit of mascara to accent my blue eyes, and I was ready to roll.
I went back to my seat and reviewed my file on the client one last time, though I knew the whole thing by heart. New last name, new identity. Each assignment we got a new name, but I didn't actually have a last name of my own. Didn't need one, really. The target had a son, Tommy. I hated assignments that involved kids, but what could I do? I pushed away my reservations and rehearsed my cover story in my head.
We landed at another private airstrip, where a middle-aged driver in a tux waited for us. "Sam Tinsley? Mr. Dollinger is waiting for you. Please come with me."
I climbed into the back and Gar sat in the front with the driver. The driver told us we were in Utah. This didn't register as anything terribly exciting for me. Once the limo hit the highway, I pulled out my new sketchbook and began drawing what I saw, which was mostly flatlands and farms, until we pulled into a wealthy neighborhood with big, lumbering mansions that looked out of place in their environment. Naturally, we beelined for the biggest, gaudiest one of them all.
A great cast iron gate with a lion's head crest blocked our entrance into the palatial estates. Gar took a moment to confirm with the guard, and, after a grating buzz and a few groans, the lion gate opened to allow us in. All around us, bushes trimmed into lion sentries stood guard as we passed. Someone had read too much C.S. Lewis.
My breath hitched in my throat when we arrived at the front door and a tall, lean man in a suit came out to greet us. He smiled at me through the tinted windows, but the smile looked painted on, like a clown's.
The driver opened the car door and I stepped out, straightened my spine and forced myself to meet my client's eyes.
He played his part well and held out his arms for me. Did he want a hug? Not happening. I shifted back, slightly, but enough to get my point across. His eyes flickered a flame of anger before he smothered it with false sincerity.
"You must be Sam. I haven't seen you since you were a baby, but your father says such great things about you. I'm sorry for everything you're going through, but rest assured, no harm will come to you while you're here."
Before I could reply, a small boy of about six ran out the front door with all the enthusiasm of youth. "Is she here? Is she here yet, Uncle Henry?"
"This must be Tommy." I raised an eyebrow. "Your nephew?"
He mussed the boy's hair while maintaining eye contact with me. "The Beaumont's son. We've been partners so long we're practically family."