Hiring The Shield

Adriana

The heavy side door of the black van slid open with a harsh, grating scrape of steel against steel.

Four men piled out onto the concrete floor of the parking garage. They wore unmarked dark clothing, thick tactical boots, and black masks pulled securely over the lower halves of their faces. They didn’t carry firearms, which told me everything I needed to know in a fraction of a second. If they wanted me dead, they would have just shot me through the tinted windows before I even realized they were waiting in the shadows.

Instead, they carried collapsible metal batons and crackling stun guns.

They wanted to take me alive.

Vincent was a coward, but his investors and Bianca’s family were not. My public termination of his access to the Mercado fortune had triggered an immediate, vicious response. If they dragged me into the back of that van and forced me to reverse the financial lockdown, they could save their survival funds. The timeline was already shifting, reacting to my choices.

I took a slow, measured step backward. My thumb pressed firmly against the safety release of the pepper spray hidden in my blazer pocket. The men fanned out, moving silently to block my path back to the VIP elevator. My eyes darted toward the concrete ramp leading to the upper levels, mapping the distance. In these heels, I wouldn't make it halfway before they caught me.

"Don't scream, Miss Mercado," the lead attacker said. His voice was muffled and distorted through his mask. He slapped the baton against his open palm, the sound echoing loudly in the empty garage. "Get in the back of the van quietly, and you won't get hurt."

I stood my ground, keeping my expression perfectly neutral. I refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing my fear. "Whoever is paying you, I can double it. Right now. Just turn the van around and leave."

The man chuckled, a rough, ugly sound that vibrated with malicious intent. "We don't care about your money, lady. Grab her."

Two of the men lunged forward, closing the distance rapidly. I raised my hand, ready to blind the first one with the chemical spray and fight my way toward the stairwell.

A shadow detached itself from the thick concrete pillar to my left.

A tall figure stepped directly into the harsh, flickering overhead lighting. He didn't shout a warning. He didn't announce his presence to play the hero. He simply moved with a lethal, terrifying efficiency.

He grabbed the first attacker by the wrist, twisting it sharply. A loud snap echoed through the quiet garage, followed instantly by a scream of pain. The stranger drove his knee upward in a brutal, fluid motion, catching the man squarely in the ribs and sending him crashing to the floor in a heap.

The remaining three men froze, startled by the sudden, violent intervention. I lowered my pepper spray slightly, finally getting a clear look at the man standing between me and the van.

He was at least six-foot-four, with a broad, heavily muscled build completely hidden beneath a dark tactical jacket and loose cargo pants. He had close-cropped dark hair, a sharp, unforgiving jawline, and a thin, pale scar cutting directly through his left eyebrow. The sleeves of his jacket were pushed up to his elbows, revealing faded, intricate tattoos wrapping around his thick forearms.

Rafael Luis Mendoza.

The memories from the novel slotted perfectly into place. Rafael was a former military officer who had left the service after refusing a corrupt order that would have endangered civilians. Right now, he owned a private security agency that catered to clients, struggling to keep his business afloat. In the near future, he would become the most feared military commander in the region, leading a heavily armed survivor faction with strict discipline and unquestioned loyalty.

Currently, he was supposed to be running a routine security audit of the Bellhaven Grand Hotel's access points.

"Who the hell are you?" the lead attacker shouted. He raised his baton and stepped cautiously to the side. "Back off! This isn't your business."

Rafael didn't bother answering. He rolled his broad shoulders once, his dark brown eyes entirely devoid of fear.

The three men rushed him at once, attempting to overwhelm him with sheer numbers.

I watched closely, analyzing his movements rather than looking away. He didn't fight like a street brawler; he fought like a highly trained machine. When the first man swung the heavy baton, Rafael ducked seamlessly under the arc, stepping inside the man’s guard. He delivered a swift, punishing strike to the attacker's throat, dropping him instantly to the concrete clutching his neck.

The second man thrust a crackling stun gun toward Rafael’s chest. Rafael sidestepped the electrical charge, caught the man's extended arm in a vice grip, and used the attacker's own forward momentum to throw him hard against the side of the black van. The metal dented inward with a loud, sickening crunch. The man slid down the side of the vehicle, completely unconscious.

The leader, realizing he was the last one standing, panicked. He scrambled backward, looking desperately toward the driver's seat of the van, but Rafael closed the distance in two long strides. He grabbed the back of the man's jacket, yanked him backward off-balance, and swept his legs out from under him. As the man hit the ground, Rafael pressed a heavy combat boot firmly onto his chest, pinning him down and holding him completely immobile.

The entire encounter lasted less than sixty seconds.

Silence rushed back into the parking garage, broken only by the groans of the men on the floor and Rafael’s steady, rhythmic breathing. He reached into one of the tactical pouches on his belt, pulled out a handful of heavy-duty zip ties, and efficiently secured the wrists and ankles of the remaining conscious attackers.

Only when the threat was completely neutralized did he turn his attention to me.

His dark eyes swept over my white tailored blazer and pristine trousers, quickly checking for injuries. He expected me to be shaking. He expected tears, hysteria, or at least a breathless, trembling expression of gratitude. The wealthy elites of Bellhaven usually fell apart at the first sign of real danger.

Instead, I slipped my pepper spray back into my pocket, smoothed the lapel of my jacket, and checked the screen of my phone. Still no signal. The scrambler was still active inside the van.

Rafael frowned, his thick eyebrows pulling together in a sharp line. "Are you hurt?"

His voice was deep, rough, and entirely lacking manners.

"I am perfectly fine," I replied, keeping my voice calm and steady. "Thank you for the timely intervention. I assume you are here assessing the hotel's blind spots?"

He paused, clearly thrown off by my composed demeanor. He took a step toward me, his boots crunching slightly on the grit of the concrete floor. "The security cameras in this sector went dark ten minutes ago. The hotel staff didn't notice. I came down to check the feed lines." He looked down at the men tied up on the floor. "Looks like they used a localized scrambler to cut the cameras and the cell service."

"Efficient," I noted, looking at the dented side of the van. "But ultimately flawed, since they didn't account for you."

"They're amateurs," Rafael said bluntly. He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck, his muscles shifting under his jacket. "Hotel security is about two minutes out. I triggered the manual alarm in the stairwell before I stepped in. You need to stay put until they get here and secure the perimeter."

"Hotel security is incompetent," I replied smoothly, meeting his gaze. "If they were doing their jobs, a stolen van full of armed men wouldn't have bypassed the VIP gate in the first place."

Rafael let out a short, humorless exhale. "Can't argue with that."

I took a few steps closer to him. Up close, his physical presence was even more intimidating. He radiated a quiet, dangerous energy, but beneath the lethal exterior, there was a strict, unyielding sense of discipline. He didn't use unnecessary force, and he didn't boast about taking down four men. He was exactly the kind of man I needed standing next to me when the viral outbreak destroyed this city.

"You are Rafael Mendoza," I said, stating it as a simple fact.

His gaze snapped back to my face, narrowing with instant suspicion. "How do you know my name?"

"I know that you served two tours before leaving the military. I know that you started a private security firm six months ago," I listed the facts clearly, showing him I had done my homework. It was the easiest way to mask that my knowledge actually came from the plot of a novel. "And I know that your current contracts are beneath your actual skill level. You are wasting your time auditing hotel garages."

Rafael crossed his arms over his broad chest, the fabric of his jacket pulling tight across his shoulders. "I'm not interested in playing guessing games with you, Miss Mercado. I know who you are, too. The whole city just watched you burn your fiancé alive on a projector screen upstairs."

"Then you know I have newly available capital," I countered without missing a beat. "And a very immediate need for someone who can neutralize threats in under a minute. The men on the floor are just the beginning. I made a lot of enemies tonight, and they have significantly more resources than Vincent Alvarado."

Rafael stared at me, his expression hardening into an unreadable mask. "You want to hire me."

"I want to hire your entire agency, but I want you as my personal director of security," I corrected, ensuring he understood the scope of my offer. "I need someone to oversee my personal safety, redesign the defensive measures for my private estates, and handle threat assessment moving forward. I will buy out your existing contracts. You will report only to me."

The distant, high-pitched wail of police sirens began to echo down the concrete ramp leading into the garage. Hotel security and local law enforcement were finally arriving, far too late to be useful.

Rafael didn't look toward the sirens. He kept his eyes locked on mine, searching my face for any sign of arrogance or entitlement. He despised the wealthy elites of Bellhaven. In his experience, people with my kind of money treated soldiers like disposable pawns, throwing cash at problems to avoid getting their own hands dirty. He thought I was just another spoiled girl trying to buy a shield.

"I don't do personal bodyguard details," Rafael said, his tone flat and unyielding. "I run audits. I consult on facility defenses. I don't follow rich people around carrying their shopping bags and dealing with their ex-boyfriends."

"I don't need someone to carry my bags," I replied, my voice turning equally hard. "I need someone who understands that the rules of engagement are about to change. I need someone who won't hesitate when things get worse."

"Things are just fine," he dismissed, gesturing toward the tied-up men with his chin. "This is just a dispute that got a little out of hand. The police will handle it from here."

"The police are going to be useless very soon," I stated softly, stepping closer so only he could hear me over the approaching sirens. "And you know it. You wouldn't be working yourself to the bone building a private firm if you didn't need the money for something important. Name your price, Mr. Mendoza. Whatever you need, I can fund it. Blank check."

I knew exactly what he needed the money for. His younger brother, Daniel, was currently lying in a hospital bed with a severe spinal injury, drowning in surgical debt. But if I mentioned Daniel now, Rafael would view it as a threat or an invasive manipulation. I had to let him think it was purely a business transaction.

Rafael looked down at me. He raised his right hand, lifting it into the harsh overhead light. He casually wiped a small smear of blood off his knuckles using his thumb. His expression was a stone wall, completely closed off to my logic and my money.

"I don't care how much money you have," Rafael said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. He dropped his hand back to his side and turned toward the stairwell, effectively dismissing me. "I don't work for spoiled heiresses.”