Not on His Watch. Cassie Miles

operation, and they’re doing just fine.”

      “Take care of yourself,” Austin said. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

      “That leaves me a lot of room, sir.”

      After saying goodbye, Quint disconnected the call and returned to the outer office where Kathy Renk was scowling at a half-eaten candy bar.

      “Something wrong?” Quint asked.

      “It’s that new maintenance man, Liam Wallace, who thinks he’s God’s gift. The ego on that man!” She fluttered her hands. “Oh, listen to me. He’s got my feathers all ruffled. It’s not important. You go back to your meeting.”

      Quint smiled at Kathy as he returned to the special-ops room. The discussion with Javid continued, outlining the arcane politics of Imad, Nurul and Anbar. Why had Austin alerted him? What did he suspect about Javid? Quint wondered if the twin brothers really were estranged.

      As Vincent wrapped up the briefing, Lawson Davies was given the assignment of researching other terrorist groups and ferreting out possible traitors inside Quantum Industries. Quint wondered how he was going to be used in this investigation. Infiltrating Quantum was out of the question. Even if he buried his Texan accent, he couldn’t disguise his identity; too many people at the company already knew him. Nor was it likely he could go undercover with the terrorists.

      As the others left the office, Vincent caught his gaze. “Stay behind. We need to talk.”

      Quint returned to his chair. Idly scrolling through the information on his laptop, he paused again on the photograph of Natalie Van Buren, a lady who should be safe at her desk, escorting visiting dignitaries and sending out press releases. What was her connection?

      Vincent returned and took the seat beside Quint. For a moment, they sat quietly, allowing the energy in the room to settle.

      “When I started out,” Vincent said, “I never planned to be the guy behind the desk. The administrator. The boss. It’s harder than I expected.”

      “‘Uneasy is the head that wears the crown,’” Quint quoted.

      “And the butt that sits on the throne.”

      A joke from Vincent Romeo? Quint could hardly believe it.

      “Except,” Vincent said, “I’m not a king. We all work together, and I want you on my team, Quint.”

      “I’m ready to play.” Quint figured this was as close to an apology as he’d get. And it was enough.

      “I’d like to hear your opinion on the briefing information.”

      Quint glanced toward the woman’s face on the screen. It would be her job with Quantum to make sure these Middle Eastern dignitaries were entertained while in Chicago. “From what Javid said, I’m worried about his brother, Zahir. He’s convinced the world that he’s just a playboy, but his plan might be to take over the whole Middle East.”

      “Wish we had solid proof against him.” Vincent sighed. “It’s easier to go after known criminals. We know how they think, how they operate.”

      “Not always.” Paula’s death had been caused by a drug cartel, a viperous nest of professional criminals who had ultimately been stopped by Texas Confidential. Unconsciously, Quint’s gaze wandered toward a mounted set of cow horns over the door in the special-ops room. The horns—an anachronism in this high-tech arena—were a good-luck gift from Daniel Austin. “The only thing to count on is the unexpected. Mitchell Forbes gave me that bit of advice.”

      “Mitchell’s a good man. He told me a lot about you. Information that wasn’t included in your dossier.” Vincent’s voice lowered. “I’m sorry for your loss. Deeply sorry.”

      Quint acknowledged his sentiment with a shrug. Neither of them were men who spent much time expressing their emotions. “What’s my assignment?”

      Vincent pointed toward the computer screen. “You’re looking at her.”

      “Natalie Van Buren?”

      “She and my wife went to boarding school together, and Whitney is worried about her. It seems that Natalie has been receiving threatening notes.”

      “For how long?” Quint asked.

      “A couple of weeks. They started before the bombing in Reykjavik and might be unconnected threats from a crank, but we need to keep an eye on Natalie.”

      “Shouldn’t be a problem,” Quint said. “She’s not hard to look at.”

      “Here’s the complicated part,” Vincent said. “We don’t want to alert the terrorists to our presence. You can’t tell anyone you’re her bodyguard. Not even Natalie herself.”

      “Wait a minute,” Quint said. “Are you saying that she won’t be told that I’m there to protect her?”

      “Exactly.”

      “How am I supposed to shadow her every movement, without letting her know why I’m there?”

      “Turn on that famous Southern charm.” Vincent grinned broadly. “Okay, cowboy?”

      STANDING ALONE at the floor-to-ceiling window in her father’s office on the thirty-first floor of the Quantum Building, Natalie Van Buren stared at the familiar Chicago sky-scape. Tall, solid buildings thrust into the cloudy March day, defying the blistering winds from Lake Michigan with their muscular presence. She loved the character of her big-shouldered city. Chicago had been built from the honest sweat of plain, hard-working Midwesterners. Chicago was a city that got things done.

      Usually, this view comforted and inspired her, but not today. Natalie knew, in her heart, that someone was lying to her. Behind the bland reassurances from the other corporate vice presidents that everything was business as usual, she sensed a thin veil of deception.

      When it came to Quantum business, Natalie trusted her instincts more than she did data, meetings or memorandums. This was her home; she’d grown up here. These corporate offices had been her childhood playground. As the eldest daughter, she’d always aspired to taking over the family business. Her life had been dedicated to proving herself worthy of running the largest oil distributor in the world.

      Impatiently, she turned away from the window. Where was her father? Why was he taking so long? The minute he stepped through the door to his office, she’d pounce and demand to know the truth. As if that would make him tell her. Nobody ever forced Henry Van Buren to play his hand.

      Her father entered his office and closed the door. Though he strode with his usual athletic vigor, his green eyes—exactly the same color as Natalie’s—seemed tired. “Good morning,” he barked.

      “I need to know what’s going on,” she said.

      “Read the Tribune.” He sank into the black leather chair behind his desk. “I have a job for you, and I don’t want you palming it off on an assistant.”

      She never shirked her responsibilities. Why would he even insinuate that she wasn’t a hard worker? “Before we talk about anything else, I want some answers. In five days, I’ll be speaking to that energy consortium in Washington, D.C., and I must be sure of what I need to say.”

      He tilted his head to one side, studying her as if he didn’t see her every Monday through Friday. “You look nice today, Natalie. That’s a pretty color.”

      “Loden green.” Her tailored, silk-blend blazer with matching knee-length skirt ought to look more than simply “nice.” This suit had cost a small fortune. “Back to business, Henry. I have a few questions.”

      “Shoot.”

      “The security in this building has been increased. New fish-eye cameras have been installed on the floors. There’s a new machine in the mail room for x-raying packages. Why?”

      “It was time for an upgrade.”