Guarding the Billionaire Page 2

  I can read between the lines: I’m gonna need all the money I can get to make sure I have the best lawyer.

  “The pay is that good?”

  He names a figure that makes my teeth ache, it’s so sweet.

  “Great. What, when, where and why?”

  Mason laughs.

  “You’re a funny guy, Trainer.”

  Yep, laugh a minute. That’s me.

  “Close protection for a Saudi Prince in Riyadh. He’s on the liberal side of Old Testament and he’s had some death threats.”

  “Yeah? How come his own team with local knowledge isn’t his first pick?”

  “He thinks there’s a traitor and he’s running scared. He wants someone with no prior connection to him.”

  “So, I sit around with my thumb up my ass waiting for the traitor to blink first?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “That could take months.”

  There’s a long pause and I know what’s coming next.

  “There’s a big race happening at the end of the month in Rumah, 120km northeast of the capital. He says everything will be resolved by or at this meet. So it’s three weeks max. This isn’t a job you turn down, Trainer. The money will solve your immediate financial problems and for a couple of years to come.”

  I won’t lie—it’s really fucking tempting, but I shake my head even though he can’t see me.

  “I need to see my daughter.”

  And I’m worried that a clever divorce lawyer will twist my absence into something that makes me look bad.

  “Wrong. You need to save up the dough for your daughter’s college fund.”

  “She’s six.”

  “Your point?”

  Shit, he’s right. I’d do anything for Lilly. She’s the only sunlight in a very fucking dark, ugly world.

  He knows he’s gotten to me, and I can hear his smug smile over the phone line.

  I SPEND MY final night with the Rock Boys at another party. This time, I’m a guest—an unwilling one.

  It’s the end of tour party, and in their lets-play-rockstar way, they think they’re being mighty bad. I’ve been to an Afghan wedding, and the fun doesn’t start until you’ve eaten the week-old air-dried goat meat and blasted off a few dozen rounds from your AK47. These pansy-ass kids have no fucking clue.

  I sit nursing a beer, a dark brooding presence. No one comes near me and I wonder if the words ‘Fuck Off’ printed across my forehead has something to do with it.

  The drinking and dancing—well, grinding and twerking—goes on for the whole night. I just want to go to my room and sleep.

  Then Derrick Dickhead staggers over, drunker than a Halloween skunk, spilling his beer on the expensive carpet.

  “Hey, Mr. T!” he slurs.

  The kid thinks it’s hilarious and laughs loudly, sounding like a constipated donkey.

  Besides, I look nothing like Mr. T. You won’t see me in ironic leisure wear, or sporting a Mohawk, or pointing my finger at someone and calling them ‘Fool!” (even though I’m thinking it), and all that jewelry—the pimp look is so 80s—not that I’d tell him that to his face, being the sensitive type. All in all, I look nothing like Mr. T.

  Oh, and I’m not black.

  But just to keep the client happy, I laugh my ass off at his little joke. I exaggerate. Nope, not even a facial tic.

  I stare back, not a flicker of emotion in my eyes.

  “Joke!” the kid mumbles lamely, starting to fidget.

  I lean forward and he takes a step back, his eyes widening with fear.

  “Ha. Ha.”

  He blinks, not knowing what to do, then staggers off in the opposite direction.

  Milton has been watching the play-by-play and walks over, heaving his bulk into a chair next to me.

  “You trying to make the kid piss his pants again?”

  “Nope. Seen one piss-stain, seen ‘em all.”

  “You got that right, brother,” he sighs. “I can’t wait to get home.”

  This is the most personal conversation we’ve had in three months of working together. We really are counting down the hours now, and I wish like hell that I was catching a plane back to the good ole USA.

  “Where’s home?” I ask, just to be polite and all.

  “Little Rock. You?”

  And isn’t that the question? Where the fuck is home now? For 13 years it was wherever the Marines told me was home. Lilly lives with her mom in Connecticut. A place I use to call home but not anymore.

  “Heading to Saudi tomorrow for another job.”

  It’s an answer of sorts.

  “Wow, that sucks, man. I thought you were heading stateside?”

  “Change of plan.”

  He hears something in my voice and decides not to ask more questions. Just as well—he wouldn’t have gotten any answers.

  I finally get an hour’s shut-eye when the party winds down. No lives lost or hospitalizations, so I call that a win.

  Once we get to Schiphol airport, I’m officially off the clock.

  Derrick, the little shit, surprises me by handing me copies of the two Rock Boys CDs, all signed by the band.

  “Thanks for everything, Mr. Trainer,” he says.

  It still feels weird not to hear myself being called ‘Sergeant’ anymore.

  “Thanks, you know, for not letting me choke on my own vomit. Or anyone else’s.”

  I raise an eyebrow. Did the little runt just make a joke?

  “Anyways, so me and the boys wanted to thank you. If you don’t want the CDs, you can sell ‘em on eBay. You’d get a couple of grand for them.”

  He holds out his hand, his eyes wide as if he thinks I might shoot him anyway. But I do remember how to act like a civilian, so I shake his hand and nod.

  “Thanks. Stay out of rehab.” Ah hell, now he’s making me all sappy.

  I walk away, mentally prepping myself for the next client.

  Chapter 2

  Larry of Arabia

  THE VINTAGE ROLLS Royce Corniche is sparkling white with a creamy leather interior. It’s $200,000 worth of auto and it belongs to Prince Talal’s fifteen year old son. Good to know.

  The Little Prince is sitting in the air-conditioned waiting room with a trio of bodyguards. I’m outside, standing in the shade, but feeling the hot tarmac slowly cook the soles of my feet. We’re all waiting to meet his father who’s flying in from Dubai.

  I’m still on European time and feeling wiped. The blazing sun of a Saudi winter sucks the moisture out of my body as I study Riyadh in the distance, a huge modern city sprawling across the desert, punctured with minarets in all directions.

  It’s my first time working for Saudis, but not my first time working with Muslims. Back in Afghan, I helped train the ANA—Afghan National Army—and got to know and like many of the guys.

  They were poor, honest about the corruption at all levels of government, and simply wanted to make things better for their families and country. They were young and broke, and I understood that.

  Here, it’s a whole different ball game, and I’m still learning the ropes. That makes me edgy.

  His Royal Highness arrives on his private Boeing 747 that reputedly comes with its own gold throne. I don’t know about that since I’m not invited inside, but the nose-cone has Talal’s name on it.

  I can tell you that those born into wealth can be disconnected from the real value of money and hard work. If they’re famous, they see a need for guys like me, but if they’re not well known, there could be a lower threat against them from general crime and they may not see the value in a protection operation. In other words, a guy like me is a hindrance.

  Let the dice roll.

  The Prince is a couple of inches shorter than me, with a Burt Reynolds mustache under a large nose and piercing black eyes. He’s dressed in a Western business suit and a red checkered ghutra headdress, every pore in his body exuding power.

  If it weren’t for the fact I don’t give a shit, he’d be intimidating. B
ut I’ve faced down terrorists with RPGs and my soon-to-be ex-wife when she’s PMSing.

  “You come highly recommended, Mr. Trainer. My treasure must have the best.”

  I still don’t know what the fuck this treasure is. Mason mentioned death threats? Maybe the guy is talking about his wife? Well, maybe his favorite wife…

  I guess we must be thinking along the same lines, because what he says next concurs with my train of thought.

  “You have a family, Mr. Trainer? A wife? A man needs these things in life.”

  I don’t reply because I know he’s had me checked out and a security clearance has been secured, otherwise I wouldn’t be here. Hell, he probably knows my inside leg measurement and the date I had my appendix out.

  I’ve done my research, too, and I’m trying like hell not to be impressed by the serious money this guy has.

  As well as the $130 million mansion in Riyadh, the one with 371 rooms and 500 TVs, the one filled with fresh flowers flown in weekly from Amsterdam; he has a 250 acre estate a few miles away that has its own zoo. He also owns five-star hotels all around the world and more than 300 cars, several of which are copies to act as decoys when he travels. I’m talking Porsches, Lamborghinis, Ferraris, Maseratis, Bugattis—a gear head’s wet dream.

  I scan the surrounding area, never taking my eyes off the people around us or the buildings from where a sniper could take aim.

  “Sir, I’ll be frank.”

  “Please do,” he says, raising a bushy eyebrow.

  “I can guard you or I can guard your son. I can’t guard both of you and do a good job.”

  He stares at me, those fathomless black eyes analyzing, calculating.

  “Sons are more valuable than gold, Mr. Trainer. But that’s not why you’re here.”

  He gives a small, subtle smile.

  “I will introduce you to my treasure.”

  We drive from the airport in convoy. I’m still no wiser about this so-called ‘treasure’ that I’m supposed to be guarding.

  Talal’s road captain leads in an armored car that’s identical to his boss’s, which follows behind. Then comes the kid in his white Roller, accompanied by his personal bodyguards. I’m in a limo with a driver who doesn’t speak English, and since my Arabic is restricted to “Hello”, “Goodbye”, and “Infidels love Santa”, conversation is limited.

  Another armored car brings up the rear.

  The further we drive from Riyadh, the further we drive into the past. Donkeys pull wooden carts along the sleek, dust-covered highway, eyes half-closed as we breeze past in air-conditioned luxury. Men and boys wearing headscarves and long robes in pale colors, sell fruit and vegetables at the roadside. I haven’t seen any women yet.

  Finally, we enter some sort of gated compound heavily guarded by black-dressed security teams armed with sub-machine guns.

  A boy of about fourteen rides past on a camel, leading three more behind him. Camels? Definitely makes me look twice.

  Before the country found oil, wealth was measured in the number of camels you owned—for the roaming Bedouin, it still is, to some degree. And maybe, as the oil wells begin to run dry, that will be the case again. Although if this was a place I called home, I’d be investing in solar energy. Just sayin’.

  The House of Saud, the Royal family and rulers of Saudi Arabia, have an uneasy peace with the Bedouin. It goes back a few hundred years. I looked it all up on Wikipedia, but then I fell asleep.

  Whatever.

  What I need to know is that Talal has a lot of enemies among the Bedouin, traditionalists, and even a number of his own cousins. Since the Royal Family numbers some 15,000 people, that’s a lot of people pissed at him. Although luckily, King Salman is also a reformer. Saudi women have been allowed to drive since 2017. Woohoo.

  The cavalcade stops in front of a long line of stables. But it’s not beautiful Arabian horses watching our arrival, it’s camels, lots and lots of camels.

  My door is opened by a uniformed servant, and the hot air rushes in as I step out into a strange world.

  I watch as Talal greets all the workers by name, speaking swiftly in Arabic then listening to their reports. I don’t know what they’re telling him, but he seems pleased.

  His son, Prince Nayef, doesn’t speak to anyone and spends the whole time playing with his phone as he follows his father.

  Guess teenagers are the same pretty much everywhere.

  “Mr. Trainer, if you please.”

  Talal’s English is better than mine. Must be the three years he spent studying at Oxford and post-grad at Harvard. I read that Nayef goes to Eton.

  I step forward, keeping an eye on my surroundings as Talal sweeps his arm toward a stable in the middle of the front row. It’s slightly larger than the others and a puff of cooler air spills out as the door is opened.

  “This is my treasure,” he says proudly. “Her name is Nabila. It means happiness. Isn’t she beautiful?”

  He sounds like a proud parent and I briefly wonder why he keeps his woman in a stable when I finally realize that my bodyguarding duties are required by a large, dun-colored female camel.

  A tawny head on a snake-like neck peers out, making a noise like a frat-boy puking his guts.

  “Look! She’s calling to you!” Talal says happily. “She likes you!”

  He rubs the camel’s long nose, cooing to her in Arabic. The camel’s eyelids droop and she snickers softly.

  “She’s worth more than ten million dollars,” he states.

  My jaw hits the floor.

  “Nabila has won me more than three thousand Dirham, or twenty million of your US dollars in races.”

  Now, I get it. That is a fuck-ton of money.

  Talal continues proudly.

  “And her brood mare fees will significantly increase if she wins the Mazayen Al-Ibl next month. Her offspring will be very valuable. There have been threats from my rivals,” he says darkly. “Twice, ground-up glass has been found in her feed. But it was found in time, Inshallah.”

  I look up at the security cameras and the armed guards, and understand what Mason meant about it being an inside job. And I’m the biggest outsider Talal could find.

  “You, Mr. Trainer, will watch Nabila around the clock. You will keep her alive. You will keep her safe.”

  Nabila puckers up her hairy lips and comes towards me for a smooch. I back away, but not fast enough, and she sends a stream of saliva dripping down the front of my best suit.

  Talal claps his hands, a huge smile on his face.

  “This is a good omen, Mr. Trainer!”

  Yup, lucky me. I’ll be sleeping in a stable for the next month.

  What the hell, I’ve slept in worse places for a lot less money.

  “HEY, PRINCESS!”

  I’ve managed to get a free half-hour to Facetime Lilly. I thought Carla might fight me on this and I wouldn’t be able to do fuck-all about it, but she passes over her phone to the cute little bundle that is my reason for living.

  “Daddy! When are you coming home? I have a new Elsa! You want to see her?”

  Something in pale blue and pink flashes across the screen.

  “Isn’t she pretty?”

  “Not as pretty as you, Buttercup.”

  “Where are you, Daddy?”

  “I’m in the desert, baby. There’s sand everywhere, but there’s no ocean.”

  Lilly’s face scrunches up and I know that she doesn’t understand, so I pan the camera around to Nabila who peers into the lens, and I can hear Lilly shrieking with surprise and laughter.

  “This is daddy’s special friend. Her name is Nabila and she’s a racing camel.”

  We spend the next five minutes talking about camels, but I suspect that Lilly doesn’t have much clue what a camel is, since she keeps asking me if Nabila has a horn like a unicorn and where she keeps it when she’s not wearing it.

  Lilly giggles and it’s the best sound in the world.

  Followed by the worst.

  “Bye,
Daddy!”

  “Wait, sweetheart, I…”

  But her mom has taken the phone back.

  “It’s her bath time,” she snaps. “Try to remember that if you bother to call again.”

  Bitch.

  I’m left holding a silent piece of plastic. I really hate it when that happens.

  Nabila nudges my shoulder and I pat her nose.

  “Just you and me tonight, hot stuff. I sleep on the left, right?”

  “Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!”

  I’m not sure if that means yes or whether I’ve just struck out.

  My room in Nabila’s stable is, in fact, a rather snazzy two-room suite with an attached bathroom. It’s got AC and Wi-Fi, and a very nice arsenal of weapons, including an anti-tank missile launcher which I’m really hoping that I won’t need.

  I plug in my phone and Google the shit out of Mazayen Al-Ibl. And then my eyes do that weird bugging-out thing when I realize that I’ve been oh-so wrong.

  The Mazayen Al-Ibl isn’t a race—it’s a beauty competition.

  For camels.

  I shit you not.

  Last year, King Salman was the chief guest at the closing ceremony for the month-long King Abdul Aziz Camel Festival held outside the city of Rumah, 70 miles northeast from here.

  Partly to appease the Bedouin, and partly to celebrate Saudi culture and traditions, this weird-ass beauty pageant brings together 1,400 camel owners and ten thousand camels from different Gulf countries.

  Nabila is the front-runner, so to speak, among the one-humped supermodels, judged by a panel of all-Bedouin camel-rearing experts.

  It may sound comical, but the stakes are high. Twice already, someone has tried to kill Nabila. Ground-up glass in her food would be a cruel and painful way to die. I’m not going to let that happen.

  I’m somewhat stunned to read that the US Army considered having a Camel Corps back in the 1850s to serve the states of Texas, Mexico and So Cal. Well, how about that?

  I also learn that a racing camel is as fast as a thoroughbred horse, able to run up to 40mph. And Nabila’s breed is said to have mad skills of desert survival that would shame a Marine Sergeant—being able to survive for a month without water, eating thorns and living off of their own fat. Camel fat, that is. Not a Marine Sergeant’s. They don’t have much fat. Speaking from experience.