Better to See You, page 1
BETTER TO SEE YOU
ARROW TACTICAL SECURITY
ISABEL JOLIE
Copyright © 2022 by Isabel Jolie.
All rights reserved.
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Editor: Lori Whitwam
Proofreading: Jessica Meigs
Cover Design: Damonza
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No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
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This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Isabel Jolie asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
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Isabel Jolie has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.
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Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks, and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.
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CONTENTS
Better to See You
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
From the Author… aka Izzy
Also by Isabel Jolie
About the Author
BETTER TO SEE YOU
“There are various kinds of wolves…those who are charming, quiet, polite, unassuming, complacent, and sweet, who pursue young women at home and in the streets. And unfortunately, it is these gentle wolves who are the most dangerous ones of all.”
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—Charles Perrault, Little Red Riding Hood
CHAPTER 1
Ryan
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The black ball comes out of nowhere, a blur in my peripheral vision. In one fluid, subconscious motion, my hand rises, and it smacks my palm. Beyond my monitor, Trevor grins.
“Solid reaction time.” Trevor, my business partner, former SEAL team member, and closest friend, plops down in my office chair.
“Can you cover an interview for me this morning?”
“What time?”
“Nine thirty. Rusty Callaway. Stella has his file. If I can meet with him once my meeting wraps, I will.”
Stella is Arrow’s HR director, and Trevor’s soon-to-be wife. They aren’t yet engaged, but I’ve never seen Trevor so serious about a woman. Mentally, he’s committed for life. They say when a man loves a woman, he’ll do anything for her. Well, Trevor killed to protect her. In my book, that’s as committed as it gets.
On my monitor, a small window in the upper right corner shows a view of the entrance to Arrow’s reception area. A couple enters and approaches the desk.
“Who’s that?” Trevor asks.
“My nine o’clock. Jack Sullivan. An old Naval Academy classmate. Flew up from San Diego.”
“Who’s the woman?”
The dark-haired woman standing beside him is tall, nearly as tall as Jack, and he’s a little over six feet. Her long hair falls midway down her back. There’s a briefcase hanging off her shoulder, and the strap sinks into her shoulder pad, something that is noticeable from the bird's-eye of view of our security camera.
“I assume his wife. He invited me to his wedding ages ago, but I couldn’t get leave. Never met her.” She’s wearing a shapeless black pants suit. “Could also be his colleague.”
“What’s the meeting about?”
“He needs our services.” I tap my fingers as Tabitha Patel, our receptionist and highly skilled gatekeeper, verifies their licenses. “Needed to meet as soon as possible.”
In my office closet, I store extra suits, ties, and workout clothes. I thumb through my options and select a navy suit coat. Jack’s wearing a tie, but I don’t bother with one.
Trevor studies the screen. “What’s he do?”
“He’s CEO for Sullivan Arms, the gun manufacturer.”
“I own one of their handguns. What’s he need?”
“Didn’t say. Said Arrow Security came highly recommended. Checked out our site and recognized me. Said he needs complete discretion.”
“Rich guy. Guns. Interesting. If he didn’t have his wife with him, I’d bet on a ransom hanging over his head Ashley Madison style.” Ashley Madison is a site that married individuals seeking a discreet relationship use. We had a high-profile client a couple of years ago reach out to us to identify someone hacking the system and threatening select wealthy users.
“That’s not Sullivan’s style. He’s good people.” Trevor questions my judgment with one lift of his eyebrow and a cocky smirk.
Rumors swirled around Jack Sullivan back in the day. Because of his wealth, cadets observed his every move. He qualified as a celebrity in our ranks. But I never saw any sign he let it go to his head. If anything, he worked harder than the rest of us.
Everyone believed once he finished his time with the Navy, he’d leave the military to run his family’s company. One quick internet search after his call showed me he’d done just that. According to the latest Forbes list, his net worth looms near the billion threshold.
The woman glances up and looks directly into the camera. Dark eyebrows arch over observant eyes.
“His wife’s hot.” While I agree with Trevor’s assessment, I am much more intrigued by the reason for an urgent visit.
“You want to stay for the meeting? Until nine thirty?”
“Nah. I’ll head down and get Callaway’s file from Stella. Shout if you need me.” Trevor pauses and taps the doorframe. “Maybe he just needs a security detail?”
“We shall see.” There’s no point in guessing. He’s in the elevator.
Arrow Security conducts most of our work off-site, and, as such, most of our office cubicles remain empty. We offer both physical and IT security services, surveillance, protection detail, and we work with government entities on international projects. Unbeknownst to the public, the National Security Agency, or NSA, the Central Intelligence Agency, or CIA, and the Federal Bureau of Investigation, or FBI, are all clients.
Typically, Arrow handles projects when the government wants to be able to deny culpability should something go wrong. And we handle private citizens’ requests when standard law enforcement doesn’t offer a solution.
On my way to the elevator bank, I nod at a few individuals in the cubicles along the way. They wear headsets for the job or to listen to music. The employees in the open cubicles typically work on surveillance, watching videos or monitoring reams of electronic communications. Sometimes we have coders in-house, but it’s rare. We have two partners who manage tech security, and they both reside farther north in Napa.
The elevator dings, and the doors open.
Jack Sullivan flaunts his wealth, from the well-fitted three-piece custom suit to his shiny dress shoes to the gleaming gold Rolex on his wrist. The dark-haired stunner at his side is a natural beauty, but her inexpensive interview suit doesn’t match his aesthetic.
Since opening Arrow, I’ve interviewed hundreds of candidates, most of whom don’t wear suits daily and own one suit for interviews and funerals. The sleeves on her ill-fitting jacket hang loosely. Her pants ride too high above her ankle. Scuff marks mar the tips of her sensible, low, black heels. The thin gold choker around her neck contrasts with a larger chunky sea-glass necklace. Brown eyeshadow and dark eyeliner accentuate large, dark eyes that dart past me, taking in the room, possibly scanning for entrances and exits. In person, her hair is closer to dark chocolate than black, with long bangs that frame smooth skin and an angular jaw. Her pale pink lips are bare, her nails short and trimmed.
The last time I saw Jack, he’d told me he’d found the one. That was over fifteen years ago. The woman at his side might be in her late twenties, but she could also be in her early twenties. There’s no way she’s his wife. Would Jack hire a young lawyer?
As I approach, Jack faces me head on, shoulders back, with no trace of a smile. The woman at his side angles her body toward Jack and clasps her hands nervously in front of her. I extend my hand to my old friend.
“Jack Sullivan. It’s been a long time.
“Ryan Wolfgang.” He grips my hand in a firm handshake. “Do you still go by Wolf?”
I force a cordial, professional smile. Wolf is the name I went by at the Naval Academy, and it stuck throughout my military career. With a foo-foo last name like Wolfgang, I gladly embraced the shortened moniker my friends gave me. But, in the business world, I prefer Ryan. Within Arrow, my closest friends still call me Wolf.
“Sometimes.” I let his hand go. “You can call me Ryan. Or Wolf if you prefer.” I turn to the woman at his side and offer her my hand. “And you are?”
“This is Dr. Rolfe,” Jack answers for her. Her handshake is unexpectedly firm, and she maintains eye contact.
“You can call me Alex.” Her hand remains in mine a beat too long as my gaze begins to drift over a borderline too-skinny figure swallowed by ill-fitting clothes. She swallows nervously. I release her hand and redirect.
“Shall we meet in the conference room?”
Jack and Dr. Rolfe pause at the end of the hallway, taking in the cavern of desks and monitors. Offices line the perimeter of the open cubicle area. Open doors offer views of office desks and windows with bright blue Santa Barbara sky. The far glass wall opens into a conference room with a long table and a window with a view over buildings. Off to the horizon, between buildings, glimpses of the Pacific Ocean hint at the proximity of the beach.
“Just this way,” I direct. “Can I get you any coffee or something to drink?” They both decline, and I close the door. “Tell me, how can I help you?”
Dr. Rolfe pulls out a notebook and a pen. She rolls her chair and situates it a foot away from Jack’s chair, angled so she can observe us both. Chew marks mar the end of her plastic pen. Her long, thin fingers are bare. Definitely not the wife.
Sullivan smooths his tie and leans forward, resting both forearms on the table. Under the fluorescent lighting and in this proximity, deep wrinkles around the corner of his eyes show, as does a hint of red around the whites.
“Can anyone hear us?” he asks me.
“No. This room is soundproof.” Dr. Rolfe scans the corners of the room. There are visible camera lenses in the corners beneath black glass globes. “No cameras are running. Nothing is being recorded.”
Jack gazes down at his clasped hands. He raises his gaze, and I am met with a mask of professionalism.
“My daughter, Sophia, is missing. She’s only fifteen. Will you help me find her?”
“Have you been to the police?”
“Last night. The officer on duty said most missing persons are found within twenty-four hours. They suspect it’s a misunderstanding or a runaway case.” Jack’s pasty skin, tired eyes, and the fact he flew to me say he’s not placing any weight on a simple misunderstanding.
“How long has she been missing?”
“Since yesterday evening.”
“Do you think she ran away?”
“Maybe.” His shoulders hunch inward. The youthful pride I remember is absent. Sadness and desperation are taking root. “When I asked around, Arrow Security came up multiple times.”
“That’s good to hear. But missing persons isn’t our specialty.” Alex’s pen pauses against the paper.
“But kidnapping and ransom are.” Jack stares me down. Direct, open, forthright. Qualities I remember from our Naval Academy days. Back then, he seemed older than his age. And that holds true today.
“You think she’s been kidnapped?”
“I honestly don’t know.” He shakes his head. “She could have run away. But I still need to find her. And I need discretion. I only want to work with people I trust.”
“Has anyone contacted you?” Jack Sullivan is a wealthy man. It’s reasonable he would suspect a kidnapping.
“No. Nothing.” He drops his head. “But she’s been gone less than twenty-four hours.” His chest lifts and his gaze zeroes in on the far right corner of the room. “Look. The police may be correct. She may be off with friends. I am strict. Maybe she tired of it. This could be rebellion. And if that’s the case, I don’t want this played out in the media. I want to find her and bring her home. But if it’s kidnapping, and they want a ransom, I want you locked and loaded, ready to go.”
Dr. Rolfe’s pen flies over the notebook as he speaks. Why is this woman here? And what the hell is she writing down?
“When did you last see Sophia?”
“Yesterday morning before school. I had a business dinner and got home around ten. A friend dropped her off after school at around four thirty. That’s the last time anyone has seen her.” I glance at my wrist. Sixteen hours since she’d last been seen. “Last night, when she wasn’t home, I tracked her location.”
“Using what?”
“An app I have on her phone.”
“And where was she?”
“The phone was in her bedroom.”
“Did you find any sign of struggle?”
“No.”
“And why do the cops believe it’s a runaway case?”
“Her age.” He stretches out his hands. “She’s fifteen. We live in a safe, gated community. The officer on duty last night said they see these cases all the time.”
Dr. Rolfe’s pen stills. She looks in my direction but not directly at me. “There’s no sign of struggle. Leaving the phone at home is the action of someone not wanting to be found. If someone had taken her against her will, you’d expect the phone to either be with her or tossed and destroyed.”
“Dr. Rolfe, what is your role here?”
Jack’s fingers tap the table, and his gaze remains locked off to the side. It’s as if he’s not entirely present.
“Oh, ah, I’m a family friend. Or, well, I was a friend of Sophia’s mother. Cassandra.” She looks to Jack. He slowly turns his head and glances between the two of us.
“I asked Dr. Rolfe to join us because she is a preeminent profiler. She is an expert in the criminal justice field. And, as she said, she’s a family friend. I trust her.” He rubs his hand through his hair and then pinches the bridge of his nose. “If the media gets wind of this, it has the potential to blow up. I have a nephew who lives in Houston. They’ve painted him to be a playboy. If she ran away, I don’t want it to be hitting gossip columns. It could impact her college chances. Or, like my nephew, she could play into the spotlight.” His jaw flexes. “I don’t want any of that. I just want to find her. And I want people I trust working with me.”
“I’m an associate professor at UCSB.” Dr. Rolfe points out the window in what she most likely presumes is the direction of the campus. “I also consult on criminal cases.”
At the elevator, I had registered her eyes as dark brown, yet I misjudged. Her dark green eyes remind me of a forest, a soothing, earthy shade easily mistaken for ordinary brown. The pale skin around those green eyes is noticeably smooth, her lips full, her cheekbones pronounced.
“And exactly how many cases have you consulted on?”
“Two cases for the Santa Barbara Police Department. I moved here last summer. Most of my experience stems from cases in Great Britain.” Stems from?
“Her father is Dr. Henry Rolfe.” Sullivan says it as if the name should mean something to me. It doesn’t, but I mentally store it for a background check.
A missing persons case. “And her mother hasn’t seen her?”
Alex’s gaze falls to her lap. Sullivan’s chest rises several inches. He swallows.
“Cassandra died almost three years ago. Sophia came to live with me after her mom’s death. Sophia and I…we’ve gone through a lot together. That’s why I don’t believe she would run away. But…” He stretches out his hands again, palms flat on the table. His chest rises on his inhale. “I don’t know. I’ve been told I can be hard to live with.”
