Shadow Contract: The Bodyguard’s War

Rain hammered against the windshield, as if trying to break through.

Damien Cross didn’t flinch. He never did. Behind the wheel of a matte-black SUV, he could feel the engine hum beneath him as he zeroed in on the blinking red light across the street. Two stories up, second window from the lefttarget confirmed.

Sophia Reed.

She was thirty-two, owned a bookstore, and had a clean slate criminal record, no known enemies. But Adrian Vale didn’t hire Damien just to shield innocent women from threats that didn’t exist.

No, he called Damien when things were about to get messy.

The comm in Damien’s ear crackled to life.

“Target’s still inside,” said Reed from Logistics. “She’s reading a paperback and hasn’t moved in twenty minutes. You think this job’s worth it?”

Damien didn’t respond. He didn’t owe rookies an explanation. This contract came straight from Vale’s encrypted line, high priority, eyes only. Protect the girl. No questions asked.

That told him one thing: Vale was scared.

And when a guy like Adrian Vale got scared, people ended up dead.

Damien stepped out of the SUV, boots splashing in the puddles. The rain soaked through his black field jacket, and he pulled the collar up to shield his face. A passerby glanced his way. Their eyes met, then quickly dropped. Smart move.

He crossed the street quickly, stopping just outside the glass door of the bookstore. A bell hung above it, hand-painted with fading flowers. Willow Books, the sign read. So quaint it made him suspicious.

Of course, the door was unlocked.

He pushed it open, ringing the bell. The warmth hit him first, followed by the scent of old paper, fresh coffee, and a hint of lavender. He scanned the room instinctively: no cameras, one exit out front, another stairwell behind the counter. Empty, except for her.

Sophia Reed sat behind the counter, completely absorbed in a worn copy of Wuthering Heights. She wore a gray cardigan and dark jeans, her hair twisted into a messy knot. She didn’t look up. That meant she had no idea.

No idea Vale had flagged her as a “Level Three Live Asset.”

No clue someone had tried to breach her back-door server at 2:03 a.m.

No idea Damien had spotted a guy tailing her two nights ago, and that same guy was now unconscious in the trunk of Damien’s other vehicle, thumbs broken.

She was completely exposed.

“Excuse me?” she said, glancing up. “We’re closed.”

Damien stepped closer. “Not here to shop.”

Now she was looking at cautious green eyes flicking from his face to the Glock partially visible under his coat. She stood slowly but didn’t back away.

“I think you have the wrong place.”

“Nope,” Damien replied. “I’m exactly where I need to be.”

He reached into his coatnot for the gun, but for the ID card Vale had issued. He placed it on the counter. Her eyes dropped to it.

Then narrowed.

“Vale Industries? What the hell does Vale want with me?”

Damien kept his voice steady. “It’s a precaution.”

“What kind of precaution sends a… trench coat hitman into my store without warning?”

He didn’t smile. “The kind that keeps you breathing.”

Sophia took a step back. “If this is a threat”

“It’s protection. Your name came up on a list. I’m here to make sure you don’t get killed.”

“List?” she echoed. “What list?”

Damien hasn’t answered yet. He moved toward the front door, locked it with a firm click, then flipped the sign to Closed. The store fell into silence.

“This is insane,” she muttered, rounding the counter to grab her phone. “I’m calling the police.”

“You won’t get a signal.”

Sophia froze, her thumb hovering over her screen. “Excuse me?”

“There’s a jamming radius active,” Damien stated flatly. “Started two blocks back. No signals in or out for the next twenty minutes.”

Her face drained of color. “Who the hell are you?”

He held her gaze. “The guy keeping you alive.”

Then, a sharp crack split the air.

Glass.

The front window shattered in a clean, practiced circle.

Damien tackled Sophia just as a bullet whizzed past where her head had been. They hit the floor harder gasp, his grunt, the sound of a stool crashing into the bookcase behind them.

Another shot. It missed, but a wood splintered near her ear.

Damien rolled, pulled out his