Her Personal Bodyguard

When you're eighteen, you think you know a lot about everything, but in reality, you don't know very much about anything. When you enlist in the Marine Corps, the drill sergeants have a way of impressing that fact on you. The sadistic bastards rip apart everything you thought you knew and then teach you about reality. It doesn't stop there either. From Recruit Training, you go to the School of Infantry, and it happens all over again.

When you get out of Infantry School, you're pretty confident. You've learned how to do everything the Marines taught you to do, and along the way, you picked up a little about life. Since a lot of that additional training takes place in bars full of available women, you're all set to go out and live life. You can take on anything with a rifle, bayonet, grenade, even with your bare hands...or so you thought.

Then the Marine Corps sends you on a yearlong vacation to some foreign country where people like shooting at you. That old "you're part of a team" they taught you in SOI doesn't seem to work for about three months. That's because nobody on your team is going to trust you not to get yourself and them killed. Only after you've learned a new set of skills and proved to be proficient at them will you actually become part of the team.

After that combat assignment, you'll probably get assigned to a stateside unit for a year, and then you go overseas again, this time to a place that isn't doing its best to kill you. After that year, you come back to the states to wait out the remaining time of your enlistment.

That's what happened to me. I spent my last eight months in an infantry unit at Camp Pendleton as part of the training cadre for SOI doing all the things the way the Marines said they should be done. I found it interesting that a lot of what I'd learned in combat weren't exactly the Marine way. It was also hard to remember that my utilities were supposed to be pressed and that I needed a haircut every week.

When I was discharged, I was happy. I could do what I wanted to do whenever I wanted to do it. I went home to Bogata, Texas to spend some time with my folks while I looked for a job.

The first week home was great. Mom fixed all my favorite foods and hugged me at least four times a day. Dad said I looked like a man now, and we shared a couple beers on the front porch every night.

After the first week, Dad asked what I was going to do now. That was his way of asking me when I was going to get off my dead ass, find a job, and move out. Mom kept dropping hints about this girl and that girl who were really nice girls and were still single.

By the end of that week, I'd had enough. People had been telling me what to do for four years and I thought it was time I started making my own decisions.

I did want a job, but that old thing -- reality -- set in when I started looking. There weren't many jobs in Bogata. Bogata is kind of a bedroom town for Paris, Texas, and most people with jobs who live in Bogata, like my dad, work at either Kimberly-Clark or Campbell's in Paris. I couldn't see myself making sanitary napkins at Kimberly-Clark or stirring pots of soup at Campbell's. There were other jobs in Paris, but they all required more education than I had.

I'd signed up at the Unemployment Office in Paris, but the woman there said there weren't many jobs for a person with my qualifications. Basically she was telling me I had to get my ass in college if I ever hoped to make enough money to survive on. That direction didn't suit me either. I hadn't done all that well in high school, mostly because I liked to learn things by doing them instead of reading about them in a book.

It was the Monday of my second week home when I got a call from the Unemployment Office. The woman said she had a possible job for me. It didn't pay a great deal, but I'd have a room of my own and three meals a day. That would at least get me out of Mom and Dad's house while I looked for something else, so I asked her what the job was. I about fell over when she said it was a job as a personal bodyguard.

Well, that sounded interesting. I pictured myself in a suit and tie with really dark sunglasses, my trusty pistol in a shoulder holster under the jacket, and driving a long black limousine with my employer sipping champagne in the back. I told the woman I'd take the job. She said she'd tell the client and set up an interview. I asked Mom if I could borrow her car.

As I had learned over the past four years, most of life is a far cry from how you imagine it to be, and this job wasn't any different. My first clue was when the interview wasn't in an office but was instead at a ranch about fifteen miles west of Paris. For the last six miles, I was the only thing on the road except for a couple rabbits and one armadillo. Beside the road on each side were woven-wire fences that looked taller than I was, and off in the distance I could see cattle grazing on the grass between the trees.

My second clue was when I drove up to the gate of the ranch. On each side was a pillar constructed of stone and at the top and between the pillars was a sign with "Aldor Cattle Ranch" spelled out with steel bars. Suspended from that sign was a video camera.

The wrought iron gate was closed, but there was a sign on the right hand pillar that said, "Call For Entry". I got out of Mom's car, walked up, and pressed the button.

A minute or so later, a woman's voice came over the speaker above the button.

"Yes, who is it?"

I said, "Mark Rivers. I'm here for a job interview."

The voice said, "Just a minute and I'll open the gate."

I got back in Mom's car and waited. Just as the voice had said, a minute or so later, the gates swung open. I drove through and watched the gates close behind me.

The road I was driving on was blacktopped just like the highway I'd turned off of. It wound through about a mile of trees, and half way to the house, I saw a lake off to my left. There were the same high fences on both sides of the road, and as I drove into the circular drive in front of the huge ranch-style house, I saw there were several other buildings arranged around the drive. One was obviously a stable because there were six horses grazing in a pasture, and another must have been a barn because I saw three black bulls resting under the trees in their pasture. The big sliding doors of the third were open and I saw a couple tractors, a pickup truck, and two four-wheeled ATV's inside.

After seeing the size of the house, I figured the woman who'd let me in the gate was probably a housekeeper, and when I rang the bell, she'd be the one who answered the ring. She'd let me in and then take me to my interview.

I was already wishing I'd dressed better. When the Unemployment Office said I was going to a ranch, I figured jeans and a clean shirt would be enough. The size of the place had me reconsidering though. I had no idea how much a place like this was worth, but I was pretty sure if the owner wanted a personal bodyguard, they would be expecting a more professional appearance.

I pushed the bell button, and was surprised when the door opened almost immediately. It was a woman, like I'd expected, and she was dressed about like I was except instead of cowboy boots, she was wearing blue running shoes with ankle length socks with pompoms at the heels. That meant she had to be the housekeeper. I smiled and introduced myself.

"Mornin' Ma'am. I'm Mark Rivers, the guy who called from the gate. I'm here for a job interview."

The woman looked me up and down with a frown on her face, but said, "OK, come with me."

The woman looked a little over thirty. By that, I mean her face looked about that old. There were a few little crow's feet at the corners of her eyes, and what I thought were probably laugh lines, though she seemed pretty sour right then. The rest of her was pretty nice and filled out her jeans and button up shirt really nice too. As I followed her though the house, my eyes kept straying to the way her ass cheeks moved up and down with each step. I thought it was pretty erotic and then reminded myself I was there for a job interview and shouldn't be doing anything to distract myself.

Actually, that was easy because of the house. The woman led me from an entryway and into a huge living room. I kid you not, that living room was as big as my parent's whole house. On one side in front of some big windows were two couches and two chairs. Through those windows I could see the lake and the pastures. On the other side of the room were two more couches and four chairs grouped around a massive stone fireplace I could have laid down in. Above that fireplace was an equally massive wood mantle with a few pictures.

The ceiling of the room wasn't really a ceiling. It was huge, polished beams that ran from one side to the other. Light fixtures in the form of old wagon wheels with six bulbs each hung from those beams.

There were three doors out of that room, and the woman led me to one of the two at the other end of the room. She opened the door and motioned me inside.

That room was pretty impressive too. In the center was a large oak desk with one of those chairs you see in the movies in the executive suite of a corporation -- black leather that looked really comfortable. There was another, smaller fireplace with a mantle to the right of the desk, and on that mantle were trophies for something or other. The other walls all had pictures of cattle, horses, and the lake.

I was standing there taking in everything I saw when the woman walked around the desk, sat down in the big chair, and then pointed to a chair in front of the desk.

"I'm Victoria Aldor. Have a seat, Mr. Rivers."

She still wasn't smiling, and I probably wasn't either. If her last name was the same as the name on the gate, she was probably the person who was going to interview me, and that had me worried.

All along, I'd been expecting my future employer would be some rich guy who was worried about being robbed. I was well prepared for that, I thought, because of my combat training and experience in actual combat. I wasn't sure a woman would think about things like that. Once again, reality was a lot different from my expectations.

The woman looked me in the eyes just like the Drill Instructors in boot camp had.

"Mr. Rivers, I'm looking for a bodyguard who can protect me from anything and everything, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. What makes you think you're the man for the job?"

I couldn't get a read on whether she really meant what she said or if she was just trying to scare me away, so I tried to find out.

"Well, Ma'am, I suppose that depends on what you think might happen to you. I can do a lot of things to keep you safe, but there might be some things I don't have any experience with. I do learn pretty fast though."

She nodded, then leaned forward and put her hands on the leather desk blotter.

"Fair enough. Here's the deal. My husband was a very successful commodities broker who bought this ranch and became successful cattle rancher because he was great businessman, but he had a brother who isn't worth the powder it would take to blow him to hell. Jason owns a used car dealership in Dallas that deals only in expensive cars like Rolls Royce, Bentley, and Mercedes. He's been in trouble with the law for years. The worst charges were selling stolen cars and money laundering, but you name it and he's probably done it. He's an evil man but he's not stupid. He's never been convicted of anything because there either wasn't enough evidence or a witness decided to change their story or just disappeared.

Jason has had his eyes on this ranch since Max bought it ten years ago. To keep Jason from constantly hassling him, Max wrote a will giving me the buildings, land, and three-quarters of his remaining assets. Jason would get a quarter of what assets remained. Max gave Jason a copy of the will.

"Max didn't trust Jason, so he had our lawyer draw up another will the next day that left everything to me. Jason never knew about that will until Max died. As soon as he heard about Max's death, he started trying to get what he thought would be his share of the estate. Our lawyers showed him the latest will and told him he wasn't going to get anything. Jason took me to court and lost, so he's really pissed, and that and how Max died are what worries me.

"Max supposedly shot himself six months ago. I'll never believe that. He wasn't that type of person and he had no reason to be depressed. The ranch was doing great and he was planning on turning part of it into a hunting preserve. We have deer as thick as fleas on a dog and more quail than you can shake a stick at. He'd already had an architect design a lodge that would accommodate ten guest hunters and was a week from signing a contract with a builder.

"It was also strange that he'd ride his horse out to one of the far pastures to do it. That's where one of the hands found him five days after he disappeared -- six miles from the house and leaning against a tree. It was like he didn't want anybody to find him for a while. I can't imagine him wanting that. He knew that if his body was there overnight..."

She stopped talking for a couple of seconds, opened a desk drawer and took out a tissue, then dabbed at the corners of her eyes.

"The coyotes and wild hogs had done a good job of making sure he couldn't be identified. If he hadn't had some dental work done, the police probably would still be guessing at who it was."

"What I think is his brother figured out a way to get him out there, killed him, and then made it look like Max shot himself. There's no way to prove it, but when the judge handed down his verdict against Jason's claim to the estate, Jason looked at me and said he wasn't done with me yet.

"My lawyers say Jason wouldn't have a case unless something happens to me. My will says when I die; everything goes to various charities. If I died, Jason could sue the estate and claim as Max's next of kin he should get everything. If he found a sympathetic judge, he might get away with it and get at least half. I don't put anything past Jason.

"That's why I'm looking for a bodyguard. I believe if Jason can figure out a way to kill me and make it look like an accident, he will, and then he'll try to take the ranch. What I need is a bodyguard who will go everywhere with me and a bodyguard who won't hesitate if I'm ever threatened. Now, tell me why you think you can do the job."

Well, that wasn't what I'd expected at all. I was sure I could do the job, but I was concerned about the "won't hesitate" thing. Was she asking me if I could kill somebody who was trying to hurt her?"

"Ma'am, I served a tour in a Iraq with the 3rd Battalion, 4th Marines. I think I can handle anything that might come your way, but what did you mean by "won't hesitate"?

She frowned.

"What I mean is if somebody is trying to kill me, I expect you to be ready to put them down and put them down hard."

"You mean kill the person?"

She nodded.

"If that's what it takes to keep me alive, yes. My lawyers have assured me if the death is justified, you probably wouldn't be charged, and if you were, they'd have no trouble defending you. Still interested?"

Well, I was thinking about two things - one, this was the only job offer I'd had since I started looking, and two, I thought Victoria was probably overreacting to the brother's comment. People will say a lot of things when they're mad, but they seldom follow through on any threats.

The other thing I was becoming aware of what that I liked Victoria. She didn't beat around the bush when she talked. It was just "this is how it is and I don't care what you think. Take it or leave it."

"Yes, Ma'am. I am. When do I start?"

I thought Victoria almost smiled then, but it was really fast. Her face looked very stern when she looked up at me again.

"You'll start as soon as you can get here, but there is some training you have to go through to be licensed. You have to be licensed before you can be insured, and you have to have insurance to work as private security. As your employer of record, I'll cover the cost of all that, but you'll have to work hard and pass all the classes. If you don't, you'll be gone and I'll have to keep looking.

"Now, part of the classes is firearms proficiency and you'll have to bring your own gun. Do you have one?"

Actually, I didn't. I hadn't wanted one because the Marines had strict regulations about personal firearms, and getting one wasn't worth the trouble.

"Uh...no, I don't."

Victoria smiled.

"Come with me."

Victoria led me back into the living room and then through the second door on the same wall. Inside was a room that had to have been her husband's den. It was paneled with pine and had several mounted deer heads and mounted quail and ducks in flight on the walls. It had a big fireplace just like the one in the living room, and to the side of the fireplace was a bar with a beer tap and a back bar full of liquor bottles.

Victoria waved her arm around the room.

"This was Max's den. It's where he went when he wanted to relax. It's also where he kept his guns. The safe is over here.

Victoria opened a double door on one wall that revealed a steel door with a combination lock and a hand wheel. She spun the dials on the lock, then cranked the hand wheel. I heard a metallic clank, and then the whir of an electric motor as the door swung open. She looked back at me and smiled.

"This was Max's gun safe. It was custom built for him and it's just like the vault in a bank. Max loved hunting and he loved pistol shooting, so he had some pistols, rifles and shotguns. I think you'll find something you can use."

From where I stood, I couldn't see inside the door of the safe very well. I figured there was a gun rack for long guns and some shelves for pistols and ammo. I couldn't believe it when Victoria stepped through the door and turned on a light.

This was no gun safe. This was an armory. The room was as big as most bedrooms in normal houses and there were more guns there then I'd seen in most gun stores. One of the four walls had a rack filled with rifles of all types. A second wall was filled with shotguns, and the third had shelves for handguns. The wall on either side of the door had more shelves and those shelves were full of boxes of ammo.

"I thought you said he had a few. You could arm a small army with what's in here."

Victoria chuckled.

"No, not really. A lot of these are antiques. Max never shot them. He just liked picking them up and working the actions. I can show you the ones he used all the time. Let's look at handguns first."

Victoria walked to the shelves of handguns and picked up what I knew was a 1911 pistol. I was impressed when she racked the slide, inspected the chamber, and then handed it to me.

"This was one of his favorites. He said it didn't hold as many rounds as some, but one shot on target would make any man think twice about doing anything except falling down."

I'd been trained on the 1911, but this was no ordinary standard issue 1911. This one had been custom built from the ground up. The slide had been hand-fitted so there was no movement up and down or side to side, and yet it felt almost frictionless. The feed ramp looked like a mirror. After blocking the hammer with my thumb, I tried the trigger. It had just a tiny bit of travel and then a trigger break that was light, short and smooth as silk.

She picked up another pistol and repeated the same process.

"Max bought this when he read the US military was switching. He shot it some, but he didn't really like it. He said the bullet wasn't heavy enough."

The pistol she handed me was a Beretta M9A1, the same pistol I'd carried in Iraq. This pistol looked like a standard issue M9A1, but it had obviously been tuned up by a gunsmith who knew what he was doing. The action and the trigger were both a whole lot better than I remembered the army issue being.