Behind the Scenes

Chapter One

The scream echoed against the cinderblock walls of the urban cavern, climbing higher and higher and ending in a gurgling gasp.

That didn’t sound good. Mark, Kennedy Smyth’s assistant, handed her a headset and tapped a few keys on his laptop. Team’s in motion.

Kennedy adjusted the microphone in front of her lips, her gaze tracing over the landscape, calculating possible locations of the victim and her abductors.

Wolf, you have a bead on that yell yet?

Working on it, Kennedy.

You’re too slow. She leaned forward over the low wall on the rooftop where she stood, eyeing a black-clad figure moving quickly and silently down the street. He paused, held up a hand, then motioned forward with his fingers. Two matching figures joined him, and they continued down the middle of the deserted road. Kennedy shook her head. Why did rookies always make the same mistakes, no matter how much training they had first?

Mark flicked a glance her way, then back to his laptop. You going in yet?

Kennedy shushed him irritably, her brain clicking through the beats. There was the report of a rifle. Splatter appeared on Wolf’s sweater and he dropped to the ground. His weapon fell out of his hand, the clatter punctuating his groan in Kennedy’s ear. The other two stealthy operatives followed suit within seconds. None of the shots looked like kill shots, but her operatives were fully disabled, nonetheless.

Damn it. Kennedy ripped her headset off and flung it at Mark. She turned and stalked down the roofline, grabbing a pistol from the kit as she went. At the far edge of the roof she paused to pull her sleeves over her palms and stuck the gun in the holster on her hip. She swung over the edge of the roof, gripped the ladder tightly, and positioned her booted feet on either side. Sliding down two stories took her four seconds.

She landed in a crouch, gun in her hand, and spun as two figures came around either side of the building. Dropping to her back, she nailed one in the chest while the shot he’d fired hit his comrade.

Shit! The second attacker stared at his torso before slumping to the ground.

Kennedy rolled to her feet and ran past, pistol ready. She stopped at the corner, going low to check around it. Nothing. But she knew someone had to be there. She waited, listening and watching, but still nothing happened. Okay, he was waiting for her. She took a deep breath and whirled around the corner.

Her gun went flying. Then she did, as the heel of the guy’s hand caught her in the chin, snapping her head back and sending her reeling.

She caught herself quickly, reversed direction, and ducked under his swing to clip him with her elbow. Then she grabbed his arm, twisted, and flung him over her shoulder.

The victim’s scream sounded again. The echoes made it difficult—though not impossible—to pinpoint her location, but Kennedy could tell the target had been moved from her original position. She was too exposed here, so she ran through the nearest doorway, pounding around empty counters and down the back hall to the rear entrance. She kicked the safety bar, paused, then burst through the open door. No one.

Turning right, she continued running. A tall figure loomed up from behind a dumpster, laughing, but she was faster than he’d expected and she reached him before he fired. Before he knew it she’d wrenched his rifle from his hands, tapped him on the temple with the butt, and was past, cocking the weapon.

There was only one attacker left. Kennedy smiled, anticipation filling her limbs with energy. She continued down the street, running lightly now so her footsteps were barely audible. She was sure the victim was in the next building, probably upstairs, which meant the last person would be coming out the next door right about…

Now. She slammed on the brakes. A tiny figure flew out the door, but she’d expected Kennedy to be entering and her shots went wide as she crossed the alley, two-fisting the pistols á la Lara Croft. She even had a braid swinging behind her.

Too bad she was dead, Kennedy thought, firing a single shot that hit the girl in the forehead as she went down into a pile of leaves blown against the far wall.

Kennedy slowed, knowing everyone was accounted for. There remained only to rescue the victim and handle clean-up. But as she started up the stairs, a floorboard creaked over her head. It could just be the victim, but her instincts told her something was wrong. She waited, but heard nothing else. Still her skin prickled. She mentally called up the building’s floor plan. Only one stairway up, and she was a sitting duck once she hit step five. The fire escape was out, too, they’d be covering that route. Her only chance was a diversion.

She silently backed down the stairs and glanced around until her eyes landed on a decent decoy. The throw pillow had a crossover back, creating a little pocket where she stuffed a heavy brass figurine. Creeping up to the third step, she heaved the pillow upward. It hit the wall, collecting two shots in midair.

Kennedy was up the rest of the stairs before it landed. She leaped the railing into the second floor hallway, her gun leveled at Mark. Nice try, kid.

He grinned. It’s not over.

She fired. It is now.

His grin turned into a scowl. No fair.

She shoved him in the chest hard enough to knock him back. You’re dead. Lie down.

It’s still not over, he called, dropping to the polished hardwood.

Thanks for the warning. Instead of gently approaching the victim, Kennedy shoved open the door and rushed in, grabbing her in a headlock before she could hit Kennedy with the lamp she held over her head.

Assume nothing, right, Stacy? she murmured in the woman’s ear, tightening her hold when she struggled. Stacy sagged in her arms.

Right. And you don’t. She stumbled as Kennedy released her. We never get you.

I don’t plan that you ever will. Mark, gather them in here, please, she said.

Her assistant relayed the order into his headset and leaned against the wall, still looking smug at his rare foray into the field. He ran the electronics on their training ops, and the office the rest of the time. Luckily, he’d never pushed to be trained himself. He had the brains to be in the field, but not the physical skills.

Stacy, on the other hand, had both. The solid brunette usually handled logistics on their real ops, as well as working protection—bodyguard duty. She smirked at Mark’s ribbing over their failed surprise and straddled the desk chair she should have been tied to during the exercise.

As Kennedy’s heart rate slowed and the exhilaration of the chase seeped out of her, the rest of her paint-splattered team, and the three recruits they were training, straggled in.

Jefferson came first, the tall, lanky head of engineering who could be forgiven for losing his rifle, but only to Kennedy. When Rick, the shorter, top-fighter head of security came in behind him, she saluted him for managing to tag her. His people filed in next—Zip, the diminutive spitfire who’d flung herself through the door, and Jonathan, the calming influence on the team. The five bodyguards who’d handled background came in last and lined up against the back wall, nudging forward the three recruits who’d failed so predictably.

Can someone please tell me what I did out there?

Um, I can. Wolf, the first recruit and the first one to be shot, tentatively raised his hand. Surprise, relentless attack, and, ah, brainpower.

We’ll never be able to think like you, complained the second recruit, a twenty-one-year-old Navy SEAL Hell Week washout. He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt.

That attitude will prevent it, Kennedy agreed. She pointed at Wolf. You know the drills. You can recite back to me every single thing I’ve ever told you. But you have no confidence. And you, she turned on the washout, Hank. You have an overabundance. You start out cocky, then drag up defensiveness when you fail. There isn’t room on my team for either approach. She steeled her heart against Wolf’s crestfallen expression and the mutinous anger in Hank’s eyes. I want you to go home and think about what happened today. If you really want to continue. Because it’s only going to get harder from here.

What about me?

The third recruit stood behind Zip but held her chin high, determination sparkling in her eyes despite the patch of dried paint on her shoulder. Kennedy studied her, then looked at Wolf and SEAL-boy again.

You have potential. Minimal, but she didn’t say so. But you have to be careful who you follow. This isn’t the military. She tossed Jefferson his rifle and accepted her pistol from Rick, who had brought it with him. You’re all dismissed. Return the equipment, cleaned and primed, and hit the showers. Those on assignment tomorrow, go straight home. The rest of you, we’ll meet back here at ten o’clock to start training again. Assuming there’s anyone left to train, she added.

She pretended not to hear the grumbling, the murmured stone cold bitch. If anyone ever dared say it to her face, she’d agree without hesitation. She couldn’t be soft on these three—not now, and not in the field. If she had to guess, the only one who’d come back would be Wolf. His self-doubt probably stemmed from parents with overly high expectations who were too quick to lay on the disappointment. She could work around that, and he might make a decent operative.

The other two…she shrugged. They wouldn’t be back.

Mark stopped her when she would have followed the group through the narrow doorway. You have an appointment in your office. He took the pistol back from her. I’ll get this put away.

I don’t have appointments on training days, she reminded him, trying to get by.

I scheduled this one specially. He’s only in town for a day.

A client?

Yes.

She shook her head, looking down at her dusty jeans and shirt. One sleeve was torn, the back of her left hand oozed blood through a scrape, and she could feel her hair falling all around its ponytail. Not to mention her bruised jaw and sore neck from Rick’s punch.

Ask him to reschedule.

He can’t. He’s—just hold up, will you? He grabbed her arm at the top of the stairs, ignoring her raised eyebrow. You can’t intimidate me anymore, Kennedy.

She sighed. I know. I hate it. She leaned against the banister and folded her arms. So talk.

He’s a movie producer with a big case for us. I know you don’t do this kind of job, he rushed on, though she hadn’t opened her mouth. But he really pushed, insisting he had to see you personally, and wouldn’t accept a no from anyone but you.

Well, that could only describe one person. Fine. I’ll see him. But I have to clean up first. She started down the stairs. I’m not doing it, she warned over her shoulder. So don’t get your hopes up. She’d already turned down the job. She didn’t do regular security, even for friends.

I think you should reconsider. Mark matched her long-legged stride across the blacktop only by running double-time. It’s a high-profile case that could really broaden our future.

She paused outside the building that housed the offices, wary of his persistence. Which film is it? Discussion hadn’t gotten that far when she’d turned it down.

Um, I can’t remember. Something with guns. He reached past her and pulled open the door, motioning her in.

Mark, don’t bother with the chivalry. This isn’t my kind of job.

Mark stopped to look at her with serious eyes. Is it your place to decide who’s more deserving of protection?

A twinge of uneasiness had her avoiding his eyes when she walked past. He was right. She hadn’t started this company to pass judgment on who was important and who wasn’t.

Still, routine security for something as frivolous as a film shoot wasn’t why she’d started the company, either. SmythShield was small, and focused exclusively on projects with a humanitarian goal. Projects like the one where her brother had been killed. Mark knew that. Suspicion overcame her uneasiness, and she flicked a glance back at her assistant. This is that domestic terrorism picture.

Ah, yes. Yes, it is, as a matter of fact.

And they’ve cast Bailey Mutchinson.

Oh, maybe. He moved behind his desk and sat, setting the pistol to one side and opening the appointment book.

Then forget it, she joked. I’m not basing my interest in a job on your interest in getting laid.

I’m glad to hear that, boomed a voice from her office. Since that’s not what we’re basing our decision to hire you on.

Mark lifted his head. I guess he’s early.

But Kennedy was already striding into the office. Max! Before she could say more she was enveloped in Italian silk via the bear hug of a gigantic man. She squeezed back, pushing away to examine her father’s old friend. Oh, my God, you’ve gone silver! They’d talked on the phone, but she hadn’t seen him in years.

He scowled, bushy metallic eyebrows squishing together over blue-gray eyes. It was deliberate, he insisted, running a paw over the smoothed-back hair and giving the ponytail a shake. Age equals wisdom, wisdom equals power.

Perception of wisdom, anyway. She pulled away and circled her mahogany desk. Max’s groan as he settled across from her drowned out the squeak of her leather chair. Hollywood’s portion of wisdom can barely fill a glass slipper.

So cynical, he tutted, shaking his head. Whatever turned you that way?

You and my father had a hand in it. She pulled a roll of peppermint LifeSavers from her drawer and popped one in her mouth, replacing the roll after Max refused one.

So you’re bankrolling this picture, she prompted, sucking the mint. Max Swanson had once been the most powerful person in Hollywood. At its peak, his studio had been connected with six of the year’s Oscar contenders and five of the top ten grossers. Her father, now retired, had been one of the studio’s attorneys. Kennedy grew up with Max’s thunderous presence in her house. He hadn’t changed much, despite his studio’s altered position. What went up must go down, and according to her father, they desperately needed a hit. When Max called her, she’d given a simple no without waiting for details, but had since heard through the grapevine—the news media and her father—about troubles the production was having.

We’ve taken the bulk of the risk, yes, he admitted. Which is why your involvement is so important now.

Kennedy tamped down the instinct to refuse again. She’d explained to Max when he first called her that working for him would take her and her team away from people doing more urgent work. People who saved lives, who gave jobs and health facilities to children and their poverty-stricken parents. He knew what had happened to her brother, and understood what drove her.

But behind Mark’s words—Is it your place to decide who’s more deserving of protection?—was an image of Justin, frowning. Max was family and deserved at least a hearing, a chance to tell her what had changed.

Tell me more, she said reluctantly.

He sighed. When word first leaked about the script, we got a couple of letters protesting it. He waved a hand in the air. The usual stuff. People eloquently proclaiming why it was a mistake. We get them for every picture. But the more information leaked about the film, the worse it got.

Kennedy tried to remember what little she’d read about the story. It’s a pretty basic shoot-’em-up, isn’t it?

Max looked affronted. It most certainly is not. There are guns, yes, but there is a deeper message. About the availability and danger of guns. About what drives people to peddle terror. Timely issues. He scowled. If we can get it off the ground. Some of the protesting got more…passionate.

Kennedy found herself getting sucked in by Max’s zeal and tried to pull back. So why do you need me? Even passionate protest is still within the realm of your usual security firm.

There’s more. He tossed her an impatient look. We’ve cast actors from all over the world. The Middle East. Britain. France. And Hollywood. When production started things got ugly. Uglier than the firm we hired wanted to handle.

Like?

He picked up his briefcase, propped it on his lap, and opened it. He tossed a stack of paper-clipped letters in front of Kennedy. Threats against the director and some of the actors. And this. He dropped a large photograph on top of the letters. Kennedy lifted it and studied the image, though it was obvious what it was. A small box, half wrapped in torn brown paper, sprouted wires and contained an empty space in the center that would have held explosive. Where was this?

Max Junior found it on his desk. He called the film’s explosives people right away. He pointed to some grease stains on the paper wrapping. He said there’s a sign in the post office or somewhere, about grease on packages. The police can’t—

But Kennedy wasn’t interested in the bomb anymore. M.J. is directing this film? She didn’t remember him mentioning that before. But then, she hadn’t given him a chance.

The laugh lines around Max’s eyes and mouth tightened with worry, and he nodded.

So it’s not just a financial investment you’re trying to protect.

Of course not! It never was. My first concern is always the people. I hired the security company we’ve used before. But this— he pointed a thick finger at the photograph, —this is too big for them. I need the best. And you, my dear, are the best.

What did the police say?

He shrugged. There’s not much they can do. They certainly can’t protect us. You can.

And the explosives guys?

Max pressed his lips together, as if not wanting to admit something. Kennedy waited. He shifted in his chair. Finally, he said, It was a dud.

The bomb was a dud.

Well, not completely. It had plastique or whatever in it, but no detonator.

She handed the photo and letters back to him. Doesn’t sound like much.

"What does it sound like?"

Kennedy smiled at him. He was good. He knew better than to bluster at her or continue begging. Engaging her in logical assessment could hook her, make her start thinking about it, which would lead to taking the job.

It sounds like someone’s trying to scare you, or call attention to themselves with the publicity that usually goes along with these things. Would you shut down production? If it escalated?

Max sighed. I really don’t want to. M.J.’s had a string of low-volume movies. The last one went right to DVD a year after it was in the can. This is really his last chance. Even I can’t afford to back him again if this one fails.

That pretty much sealed the deal for her. This isn’t what I do, she cautioned one more time. It didn’t matter. She knew she was going to take the job.

Disappointment slid over his expression. Are you turning me down? Turning M.J. down?

Not yet. I’m making sure you really want me. My company.

His face cleared. Of course I do.

My people are used to volatile situations. They’re not average security guards.

You think they’ll be bored? He spread his hands. Hopefully, they will be!

That wasn’t really what Kennedy was afraid of. She had complete confidence in her team, whether facing new and innovative daily threats or unrelenting tedium. What she was afraid of…

I want you in charge, on site.

That was it. I have another job, Max. It’s—

Mark stuck his head in the door. Hey, Ken. Just wanted you to know Franklin isn’t going to Costa Rica. Deal fell through. He disappeared, along with her excuse.

Kennedy, this is M.J.’s life, Max said with quiet force. Read these letters. Then tell me this job is not worth your team.

She didn’t move while he stood, blew her a kiss and departed. She stared at the stack of papers, reluctant to start reading. In truth, she didn’t need to read them. She knew Max wouldn’t have come to her if the situation wasn’t serious. If his son—and cast, crew and investment—wasn’t in danger. But somewhere in the back of her mind was the feeling that he had an ulterior motive she should be wary of.

She could hear the rumble of voices in the reception area outside her office and knew Max was enlisting Mark to his cause. She sighed and picked up the letters, skimming them. They were full of vague and flowery language, implied threats more than specific ones. She really didn’t think there was anything to worry about. The bomb was probably an attempt to generate publicity, either negative about the film or positive to the cause of this El Jahar, whoever they were. She’d never heard of them.

After a few minutes Mark entered the room and set a business card on her desk. Max left this. He asked for your decision by tomorrow morning. He wants the team on the set as soon as possible. He gave me the details I need to get set up, he finished pointedly.

She shook her head. I can’t believe the studio isn’t already secure.

It’s not Starshine’s sound stage. They’ve moved to a smaller location to avoid the protestors and media. They were slowing them down, and you know, time is money. But that means looser security.

She stood and walked to the window, which looked out over the training ground. Originally an abandoned airfield, the property boasted three environments—the cityscape they’d trained on this afternoon, a jungle-like park, and a converted hangar that could be laid out like just about any building they had to penetrate or guard someone in. It was her pride and joy, evidence of the success of her company.

It had taken her ten years to bring SmythShield to this point. She’d accompanied company executives into some of the darkest corners of the planet. People who had brought jobs and health care to undeveloped countries, who had the funds to sponsor groups like Justin’s.

She knew her clients’ motives weren’t all altruistic. But she’d taken care to accept jobs with companies who strove to make things better even while they increased their profits. The money SmythShield made from those jobs allowed her to provide services at reduced fees for relief organizations and groups for whom profit was something to laugh at. Enabled her to build this training ground so her operatives were the best, and her clients were safe.

The last job we did was protecting a crew from rebel forces while a hospital was built to serve the employees of a shoe factory, she said quietly. Not pretty-boy performers like Rogan St. James.

Hmm.

She turned at a rustle of paper. Mark was flipping through the letters and not paying much attention to her. He absentmindedly clicked his ballpoint pen in his left hand, the noise grating on her nerves. Is that gun still on your desk? she asked, a bite in her voice.

Taken care of. He didn’t look up. They don’t save the world, Kennedy, but you never know what corner of it they’ll brighten.

He was right. Just because she considered movies frivolous didn’t mean the people who made them deserved to get hurt or scared. Their last job had required extra staff, a long-term commitment, and non-stop vigilance, even after she’d struck a deal with the rebel commander. They’d had only a month stateside, and some of the team had grumbled about having to go to Costa Rica so soon. She could give most of the team a break and take only a couple with her to the set. Hell, maybe an easy job would be good for her too.

Okay, Mark. Call Max and tell him we’ll do the job. And then send Rick and Jefferson in. We have work to do.

Chapter Two

The sword came down at Rogan with lightning speed, or so it seemed. He got his own sword high enough to block the blow above his head, then spun out from under. Using his momentum, he came around swinging at his enemy’s exposed side, but the man was ready. The clang of metal reverberated up Rogan’s arms and into his chest.

The two men stepped back, circled. Both were breathing heavily. His opponent thrust suddenly, and Rogan jumped to the side, grabbed the man’s wrist and jerked him forward, slapping him on the ass with the flat of his weapon.

Charlie yanked off his headgear and glared at Rogan. Nice. Slapstick. Just what I need.

Rogan apologized. It wasn’t intentional, man. I practiced that move a hundred times for my last film.

I know. Charlie dropped onto a thick roll of mats against the wall, the tip of his weapon drooping to the floor. It’s just, she doesn’t even want to try anymore, you know?

Rogan turned away so his friend wouldn’t see his eye roll, and retrieved two bottles of water from the mini-fridge on the far wall. Charlie and his wife Holly, both actors, were breaking up after six years of marriage. Charlie was miserable, but they hadn’t spent more than three weeks at a time together in all those six years. Both had successful careers and loved their work. More than each other.

Or at least Holly felt that way. Since they’d made the decision, Charlie had been blabbering on for hours every day about how much he didn’t want this breakup. Rogan was tired of it.

Up. He tossed the water bottle to Charlie, then grabbed two wooden staffs from the wall. Work.

They renewed their pseudo-combating. Rogan didn’t need the training anymore, not for Coming of Day, anyway, but it was the least boring way he’d found to keep in shape. When Charlie wasn’t around to spar with, he brought in a trainer. Usually on a picture he didn’t have the space or time to do this, but he had a few days before they finished moving the set. So he’d get his exercise and provide therapy for his friend.

Whack, whack, whack.

So, they’re sequestering you, huh? Charlie asked between moves. Trying to keep the paparazzi from blowing the ‘secrets of the film’?

Nah, it’s a security thing. Threats and stuff. Thud. Charlie doubled over. Sorry.

Good one. He wheezed for