Rich (Benson Security #5) - Janet Elizabeth Henderson Page 0,63

said conversationally, his attention on the photos.

“What the hell has that got to do with anything?” Terrance snapped.

“Just making conversation. I was never in the armed forces.” He turned to look at Terrance. “Not officially anyway. Did a couple of operations when I was with the CIA that blurred the lines though.” He sauntered to the door. “Did you serve in a hot zone? No? Shame. It forces teammates to bond in a way that’s stronger than family. You come out of it knowing you have brothers at your back. It’s a good feeling.”

“Unless you have a point to make, get the hell out of my office.”

Harvard inclined his head. “Officially, having already served your country, you’re eligible for recall if your government deems it necessary. Now, it just so happens that one of the men I consider a brother is pretty high up in your military. Not so long ago, he was saying he needed men with experience for tours in Afghanistan. Men with some life under their belts, who wouldn’t go off half-cocked and get their fellow soldiers killed. Men like you.”

Terrance leaned back in his seat, trying to appear relaxed, which he might have pulled off if his jaw hadn’t been clenched so tight. “You think you can have me recalled and sent to Afghanistan?” he mocked.

“No.” Harvard flashed a friendly smile as he opened the door. “I know I can.” With that, he walked out, closing it quietly behind him.

The two guards manning the desk shot him curious but wary looks. Harvard nodded to them. “Doing a good job there,” he said. “Staring at screens all day long isn’t easy. Has your chief got you swapping out every few hours?”

They shared a look before the man nearest to him spoke. “Uh, no. We work on a weekly rotation. Night shift for a week. Patrol, front desk, security checkpoints. That sort of thing. Each one lasts a week, sometimes more. Depending on who’s on.”

“Or who doesn’t turn up,” the other guy said.

“Well,” Harvard said pleasantly, wondering how Terrance had managed to get this job when it was clear he had no idea how to do it, “that’s another option.” Not one he’d use, but this wasn’t his circus, and they weren’t his monkeys. “You know where Ryan is?”

“Sure,” the first guy said. “Conference room. Down the corridor, third door on the left.”

“Thanks.” He squashed the urge to give them tips on staying vigilant and keeping track of details while they were on desk duty. If Rachel were there, she’d have smacked him upside the head and asked what the hell was he thinking taking on more work when he had enough of his own.

Thoughts of Rachel filled his chest with warmth and his head with images that were pure distraction. He took out his phone and dialed her number.

“What?” she barked when she picked up.

“You okay?” he asked as he thumped on the locked door to the conference room.

Ryan threw it open and motioned him inside.

“Of course I’m okay,” Rachel snapped. “What do you want?”

His eyes took in the multiple stills from different cameras that Ryan had up on the projection board. “Nothing. I just missed you.”

She hung up, making him grin before he focused on the screen. “Looks like our Samantha was texting on her way into the building.”

“Yep. Not only that, but we also have Charles shouting at someone on his phone just under Rachel’s mum’s window.” The screen changed, and sure enough, there was Mr. Racism himself, cheeks ruddy and spittle flying as he screeched into his phone.

“What’s that?” Harvard pointed to the blank space opposite Charles. “Are those shoes?”

Ryan zoomed in on the bottom left-hand corner, and sure enough, there were the toes of a pair of men’s dress shoes peeking out from one of the side doorways. The doorway was locked, but it would be a good place to shelter for a moment, out of sight of the cameras.

“We got a visual on that door?”

Ryan tapped at his keyboard. “No camera.” He frowned at Harvard. “Why would they leave a gaping security hole like that? Far as I can see, the door’s locked and alarmed, but there’s no camera on it.”

“Why indeed,” Harvard mused as the hairs on his arms became electrified. “Do you recognize those shoes?”

Ryan looked at him like he was nuts. “Do I come across as somebody who notices other men’s shoes?”

No, he didn’t. But Harvard would bet if the man had a sandwich in his hand, Ryan could