Page 5 of Undeniable
I tried not to wince as the medic peeled away the makeshift bandage. My knee fucking hurt, but I wouldn’t let them see my pain. Pain was weakness.
Wyatt—Clay’s second-in-command—entered the room. Where Clay had blond hair and a surfer vibe, always the life of the party, Wyatt was more serious, taller too. “We’ll need a statement from each of you,” he said then turned his attention to George. “I’ll start with you.”
George stood and left for another room, Wyatt and a few others from Hudson trailing behind. Leaving Disco and me alone with Clay and the medic.
“You’re likely going to need surgery,” the medic said to me, peering up at me from his crouched position on the floor.
Well, fuck.
“What the hell happened?” Clay asked. When I didn’t answer, he turned to Disco. “Disco?”
Disco cradled his wrist to his chest. “I’m not sure. When I came in, Connor was standing over George.”
At least he’d left out the part where I’d been beating George to a pulp. He was loyal, a quality I admired now more than ever.
“Why?” Clay asked.
“You’d have to ask him.”
“Connor,” Clay seethed.
I dragged my hand over my head. “I couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t stand by and do nothing.”
“Nothing about…” When I hesitated, Clay turned to Disco, who merely shrugged.
“George’s wife and daughter,” I said. “I had to protect them. He’s emotionally abusive, and I’m pretty sure he’s hitting them too.”
“Pretty sure?” Clay asked. “Pretty sure?And you’re willing to gamble your career, and Hudson’s reputation, on what? A hunch? I mean, fuck, Cujo.” He dragged a hand through his hair.
My call sign was Cujo. It was a sort of play on my first and last name—Connor James—as well as a nod to the Stephen King novel of the same name. The guys liked to joke that I was relentless—with studying, with missions, anything. It wasn’t terrible as far as call signs went, at least if you didn’t mind being compared to a rabid Saint Bernard. I’d certainly heard worse.
Poop Deck, Pigeon, Crash. I shook my head. No fucking way.
Wyatt eventually rejoined us. “Did you talk to his wife? The daughter?” I asked.
Wyatt hung his head, disappointment radiating off him. “They said nothing. And I could see no visible signs of abuse.”
I clenched my fist—both to fight the pain in my knee and the rage coursing through me. “Of course they wouldn’t. They’re terrified.”
“And you know this how?” Wyatt asked.
“I know the signs. And I’ve spent enough time with this family to understand what’s going on, even if everyone else is content to just ignore it.”
“We were hired to protect their family.” Wyatt let out a deep sigh as if the answer were obvious.
“Iwasprotecting the family.”
“From outside threats,” Clay said.
“Oh.” I leaned back in my chair. In their eyes, I’d done the wrong thing, even if I’d done it for the right reasons. “So when you say ‘their family,’ you really mean their reputation.”
“Cujo, you were out of line. Reckless. And if you’d had concerns, you should’ve come to us. Not taken matters into your own hands. That’s not how we work. That’s not what Hudson stands for.”
I was well aware. The core values of discretion, professionalism, and dedication had been drilled into me. Into all of us. Our clients paid good money, and we put our lives on the line to protect them. And there were standards. Expectations.
Even though we were executive protection agents, most people referred to us as “bodyguards.” The “principal” was the client, whomever we were protecting. Our job required muscle and intimidation, sure. But executive protection was so much more than that. Advance planning, interpersonal and conflict-resolution skills. Something that I was sorely lacking at the moment.
“You assaulted the principal’s son. Anambassador’sson. His only child,” Clay said.