The Walls Of Troy Part 1

The Walls of Troy.

L.A. Witt.

Just when the pieces begin to add up, danger blows them all apart...

MA1 Iskander Ayhan's orders are simple: stay with Admiral Dalton's son as a plainclothes bodyguard while the kid attends university cla.s.ses. So typical-a high-ranking officer abusing Navy resources for unnecessary security.

It isn't long before Iskander realizes there's more to his a.s.signment than protecting the kid from benign hara.s.sment by h.o.m.ophobic cla.s.smates. Behind those piercings, eyeliner, and bad att.i.tude, Troy Dalton is scared. Truly, deeply, scared.

Troy is indeed hiding something. Iskander is the only one who's ever taken his fears seriously, which gives him hope. Yet Troy isn't sure one lone, armed-to-the-teeth bodyguard is enough to keep him safe, especially since he can't risk telling Iskander the truth.

As Iskander slowly gains Troy's trust, the walls start coming down. And before they know it, the warmth between them explodes into real heat. Until suddenly Iskander realizes he's a magnet for danger, not a shield.

Now he doesn't know how to keep Troy safe-stay close, or get as far away from him as possible.

Warning: Contains a younger man with a thing for older men, and an older man who doesn't usually have quite so much trouble resisting younger men. Author is not responsible for any bad academic habits that might result from watching these two "study" for their exams.

Chapter One.

These orders were bulls.h.i.t.

I was on my way from my recently procured apartment in one of the many questionable neighborhoods in Norfolk, Virginia, to the home of Admiral Gregory Dalton in nearby Virginia Beach. As the windshield wipers sc.r.a.ped sheets of rain off the gla.s.s, and the torrential downpour blurred the scenery-not to mention the street signs-I gripped the wheel, more out of irritation than a need to keep my car from sliding.

"Left turn ahead," the GPS ordered in a bored voice.

I glanced at the map on the screen. Only a few miles to go. Almost there.

And I couldn't be any f.u.c.king happier.

I thumped the wheel with the heel of my hand. This a.s.signment was not what I'd signed up for. After fifteen years of being a cop in virtually every capacity the Navy offered, I'd shifted gears and gone into this whole protective detail field with a clear plan. Instead of guarding a ship, standing at a gate, or dealing with domestics in base housing like I'd been doing for my entire career, I'd play plainclothes bodyguard to some admiral. An admiral who, once I earned his favor, could put in a good word for me if I ever applied for Officer Candidate School.

Then I'd gotten my orders.

Norfolk, Virginia? Not surprising.

a.s.signed to Admiral Dalton's security detail? Good so far.

Before I'd left my previous duty station three weeks ago, I'd gotten an e-mail from Chief Fowler, the master-at-arms in charge of that security detail, and he'd given me a bit more information about what I'd be doing. It turned out I wasn't going to be guarding an admiral. I was now part of the team of bodyguards protecting the twenty-year-old son of an admiral.

f.u.c.k this s.h.i.t. I hadn't gone to school for protective detail so I could babysit some officer's kid while he went to college. From the sound of it, this was easy duty, but it wasn't what I'd signed up for. Because, of course, that was what every master-at-arms aspires to do-guard the spoiled offspring of an ent.i.tled officer who abuses his power and wastes government resources.

Hooray.

In spite of the water running down my windshield, I was able to make out the sign announcing that the speed limit had dropped from forty-five to twenty-five. That would've been a s.h.i.tty ticket. Especially since, rumor had it, the locals here weren't fond of the military presence, and local cops were notorious for playing power games with military cops.

Three years in this place. Thrilling.

On the other hand, at least I didn't have to get my hair cut every ten minutes. The high-and-tight haircut was too conspicuous, so I'd been advised to either shave it completely or let it grow out. And I didn't have to be perfectly clean-shaven, which meant I didn't have to have a special chit to justify why I always had five-o'clock shadow by lunch. Well, all right, then. Apparently even s.h.i.t duty had its perks.

"Your destination is ahead on the left," the GPS said.

"Of course it is." I gritted my teeth.

Through the pouring rain, I couldn't see much of the scenery, but the houses out here were definitely bigger than they'd been a mile or so ago. Some even had brick walls out front with lavish gates. A car pa.s.sed me going the other way, and the front end was distinctly that of a Mercedes. Nice neighborhood, unlike the s.h.i.thole I was living in.

Not surprisingly, Admiral Dalton's house was huge. It wasn't quite a mansion, but it sure wanted to be. It was one of those big, three-story plantation-style houses you'd see in a movie about the Civil War, complete with the white pillars in front and the long driveway circling around a garden with a fountain at its center.

I had no idea what houses went for in this area, but I was pretty sure there was no way someone on E6 pay like me could've afforded it. The Navy was practically laying off enlisted guys, and Admiral Dalton had the cash to buy a house like this. Nice.

I pulled up behind an SUV parked beside the front steps. Then I put on my cover-which felt weird now that my hair had grown out-and grabbed my orders off the pa.s.senger seat. I tucked them under my arm to keep them dry, got out of the car, and jogged up to the front door.

Deep, loud barking made me halt in my tracks.

A second later, three immense shadows were at the door, jumping and barking behind the frosted gla.s.s. I swallowed. No one had mentioned anything about dogs. Especially not big dogs.

"Hey!" someone snapped. "Down."

All three of the shadows stood down, stepping back from the door and dropping onto their haunches.

"Good boys," the voice said, and a second later, a more human shape appeared at the window, dressed from head to toe in the same blue camouflage I wore.

The door opened. He was a little shorter than me-most people were-with a short salt-and-pepper hair and a pair of gold anchors-chief insignia-on his collar. He extended his hand. "You must be MA1 Ayhan."

As I shook it, I glanced at the name tape on his chest. "Chief Fowler. Good to finally put a face with the e-mails."

"Definitely." He stood aside, waving me in.

As I stepped inside and took off my cover, I was about to make a smarta.s.s comment about us being butlers as well as bodyguards, but my gaze shifted to the three Rottweilers staring up at me from behind Fowler. "Oh. Uh..."

"They're friendlier than they look." Fowler scratched behind one of their ears. "Even the big one."

"The big one? They're all the same size."

He chuckled. "You haven't seen the big one yet."

Oh G.o.d...

"Just let 'em sniff your hand, and they'll be your friends forever."

I was, to say the least, dubious, but I held out my hand and inched closer. I gulped, my heart pounding as one of the imposing dogs sniffed my hand.

"All right, pups. Go to bed." Fowler snapped his fingers and pointed down the hall. All three dogs immediately jumped to their feet and thundered in the direction he'd indicated. I eyed the dogs warily until they were out of sight and tried not to let my relief show when they were gone.

Fowler clapped my shoulder. "Don't worry about them. They're harmless as long as you're not breaking in or f.u.c.king with one of the family members."

Harmless. Right. Because no one kept Rottweilers as guard dogs or anything.

He smirked. "You don't like dogs or something?"

I shifted my weight and threw one more glance in the direction they'd gone. "Let's just say there's a reason I never went to work in the K-9 unit."

"Gotcha. All right, anyway. Like I said, I'm Chief Fowler, but around here, the chiefs and first cla.s.ses usually call each other by first names. So call me Max."

"Iskander."

His eyebrows rose as we shook hands, but he didn't say anything. I fully expected to be called Alexander, Zander, "What's your name again?", and plenty of other things before people got the hang of it. In a world full of John Smiths, guys with names like mine got used to that in a hurry.

He gestured for me to follow him. "The security office is this way." As we walked, he glanced at me. "How's the jetlag?"

"Not too bad. I just came from San Diego, but I've been here a couple of weeks now anyway."

"San Diego? I thought you were stationed in Yokosuka."

"I was. Took a little extra leave to visit family before I came here. Mostly so I could recover from the jetlag. That flight from j.a.pan is heinously long."

He grunted. "Try coming back from Bahrain."

"Been there, done that, still have sand in my boots."

Max chuckled. "Best duty ever, am I right?"

"Yeah, something like that."

He stopped at the end of the hall and pushed open the door to what must have been a spare bedroom before security had moved in. At some point, it had been converted into an office for the MAs. The command center, as Max had called it in the e-mail, probably sarcastically.

They'd installed a gun safe so we didn't have to go to the base to arm up every morning and download every night. From what I'd gathered from the e-mails, Max or MA1 Johnson, the nighttime head of security, signed weapons in and out, and they handled paperwork and reports as needed.

I took a seat in front of the desk, and Max went around behind it.

"So, you ever done protective detail before?"

I shook my head. "No, this is my first a.s.signment."

"Well." He grinned. "You're lucky. This is cake duty."

I chuckled. "Is that right?"

"Yep." He took my orders and slipped them into a folder. "There's a total of seven MAs on the security detail, including you, for two people."

"Two?"

"Just the admiral and his kid. You'll be going to cla.s.ses with the kid, and you'll probably be traveling with him whenever he visits his mother in Michigan."

"How often is that?"

Max half shrugged. "Maybe once a year for a week."

"They're not close?"

He whistled. "No."

"That bad?"

"Apparently. He goes once a year to keep the peace. So, good luck when that trip rolls around."

"Thanks."

He grimaced. Then he cleared his throat and went on. "So for your daily detail, you'll be working in plainclothes."

"So you've said." I gestured at my hair.

"Right, right." Max smirked. "Yeah. It's bulls.h.i.t detail, honestly, but it is a cakewalk."

"Bulls.h.i.t? How so?"

Max glanced around. Then he lowered his voice. "I've been doing protective detail for a while, and let me tell you, nothing makes the bra.s.s feel important like having security guards with their family members." Rolling his eyes, he shook his head. "Total waste of Navy resources, but hey, the man's ent.i.tled to it, so..."

I scowled. "So there's no actual threat against the kid?"

"There's a 'threat'," he said, making air quotes for emphasis, "but it's nothing serious. Nothing that warrants an armed guard tailing him everywhere." He waved a hand. "This is just the admiral throwing his weight around and making everyone think anyone actually gives enough of a f.u.c.k about him to mess with his kid."

"Great." I'd heard those stories. One of the things I'd prayed against when I'd taken the protective detail billet was Shopping Detail-accompanying a high-ranking officer's wife on her shopping trips, more to carry bags than provide security. The worst part about those was the occasional wife who decided she liked her bodyguard. Then he was d.a.m.ned if he did, d.a.m.ned if he didn't. If he did, and they got caught, her husband would have him reduced so far in rank he'd be saluting recruits in boot camp. If he didn't, then she had ways of making his life h.e.l.l. I'd even heard about one who'd refused to f.u.c.k a general's wife, and wound up going to court martial for allegedly raping her.

"So, there's nothing really going on?" I asked. "I'm just here to make the kid's dad look important by proxy?"

"Basically." Max shrugged. "And, I mean, the kid catches some c.r.a.p from h.o.m.ophobic students at the university, but I don't think any of it's an actual threat."

My heart lurched. "What kind of c.r.a.p is he catching?"

"General hara.s.sment. Slurs. The occasional note on his windshield." He waved a hand. "Honestly, it's just kids being kids. As if this region doesn't already suck because there's a lot of racial tension, there's a big conservative population here that's not fond of gay people. And some of their kids are going to college now."

Well, at least he didn't say they weren't fond of queers. Nothing like being on anti-h.o.m.ophobia duty with a h.o.m.ophobic boss. Not that I intended to let him catch on to my s.e.xuality, but to say the least, people who casually threw slurs around made for a hostile work environment. I'd learned that with my last senior chief.

Another relatively minor point in favor of this job, but I'd take it.

I cleared my throat. "So I'm just going to follow him around at school. That's it."

He nodded.

"Seems easy enough." Not to mention a waste of government resources.