Disclaimer: This story is fiction. All the characters are my own, completely fictional with borrowed names to comply with the fan fiction genre. They should not be confused with any person living or dead. I am not now nor have I ever been affiliated with any professional wrestler or wrestling company. No disrespect intended.

Rewrite. Hope you enjoy it

Chapter 3

(Dean)

"So, you're the head of security." A man in a three piece business suit sat beside me with an air of distinction. I knew his type. Tall. Composed. The type with his nose stuck in the air and not a hair out of place. You could practically smell the money on him. But I never liked assuming other people's posts. It had gotten me into trouble a few times in the Army, so I broke the habit faster than I broke bones.

"You're a little rich for this place. You might want to head out before someone jacks that wallet." I nodded at the thick wad the guy exposed as he paid for his drink.

"I didn't come here for a night cap. I have plenty of – clean – decent clubs for that – I came here to meet you."

"Meet me?" I snorted a laugh.

"I've heard you're the best."

"Yeah, well, it's not really hard to overpower a drunk." I dismissed him and tossed the bloody rag into the trash can. Another night of boring – almost. At least the hit that caused my nose bleed made me feel alive.

"I have a proposition for you Ambrose." The guy pulled out the wad and slapped the counter in front of me. "I'm a man who holds a certain level of social standing. It's my business to create the weapons of the future. I deal with – well my clients are not important here – the point is Mr. Ambrose, sometimes people I refuse to work with are offended – people who have no business asking in the first place. Our weapons are for our country and I'll be damned if I'm going to hand it over to our enemies – they don't like to hear no. It's nothing I can't handle – but my wife that's a different story. I can't be with her twenty four hours a day – I have a career – so what I need is someone to protect her when I can't."

"I'm not a babysitter buddy."

"You're in the asset protection business and I she is my best asset."

"Asset? That's a strange way to describe the woman you love." I studied his face, and gauged his reaction. Not even a flinch.

"If you think you can make better money in this …" The man looked around with a disgusted expression. "shack – You know where to find me." He downed a shot and I watched him walk out. What a jerk.

XXX

"Lesnar in there?" I strolled into the fancy office building like I belonged there.

"You can't go in there! Sir." The young pretty thing at the desk scurried as fast as she could in her tight pencil skirt, but I was already inside his office. "I'm so sorry Mr. Lesnar – he …"

"It's okay ... shut the door, Sasha. - I knew you would see things my way, Ambrose."

I strolled into the big office of Brock Lesnar and flopped into an oversized leather chair. Lesnar kept his back turned, pouring himself a scotch and rocks. Cool, calm, unaffected that I had barged in without an appointment.

"You said to call." I said. "But I guess you know that I like to do my business face to face."

"So, we have a deal then?"

"That depends."

"Oh?' Lesnar turned slowly.

"My price is double this crap." I tossed the big stack of cash Lesnar had left me with at the bar.

"That's a little steep for a man who strolled the gutters only a few nights ago."

"You sought me out, Lesnar, but if you can't afford my price – I'll be on my way." I made it to the door before Lesnar realized I wasn't bluffing.

"Double, huh? Are you that good?" Lesnar nodded as if answering his own question. "You better be for this price." He took an identical stack and laid it next to the first. "Cash. Under the table."

"I wouldn't accept it any other way. Time and place?"

"This address. Tonight – six p.m." He gave me a paper with the address to a ritzy gated estate. It made no sense. The subdivision was well known for its high level security, but what the hell? If the guy wanted to throw out good money, I'd sure as hell put it in my bank account.

"Ambrose, I want to know exactly what my wife does. Every minute of every day. I want to know who she sees. Someone is trying to take what is mine … I won't allow that."

"Yeah. Sure."

I liked to know what I was getting myself into. Leaving Lesnar's I wasn't so sure. I thought I was heading into warzone equivalent action. I high profile business man. Guns and weapons. Seemed like two much for one man to chew and I was excited – but as I walked into the hotel room I'd rented for the night – I wasn't sure I was going to need the guns hidden away in a customized wardrobe bag. I took it from where I'd hung it in the closet and set it on the bed. Then did the same with a large suitcase.

I prepared each weapon. Slapping in clips, checking barrels and putting everything back in its place. Then I laid on the bed and thought about the information I had.

Let's just say I did my homework. Brock Lesnar was the son in law of the company's owner. He'd married the man's only daughter only three years before and it still took him a year to get a promotion. He'd received plenty since, rising quickly in the company even though his work was less than impressive. He wasn't a designer. He directly deal with the customers. He was just there. Not to mention I hadn't found even the slightest bit of evidence that he was in any real danger. No attacks on record and no one at his office knew about any threats to him – his father in law received plenty – but no one seemed to be interested in harming Lesnar.

He'd called his wife an asset. Which meant the money was hers and it was protected by a iron clad prenumpt. The man's position and paycheck was a hand out because of who he married. He was an account and didn't seem to be a good one. I'd found mistakes in his work and I only kept track of my own check book.

I had a suspicion he was stealing funds from his father in law and I also wondered if he'd married for love or for the position.

The only way the man could get a dime and most likely keep his job was if his wife cheated. Looking at her picture – I couldn't tell if she was the type or not. She had a sweet appearance, but she was born to privilege and women from that side of town always thought they could have and do whatever they wanted.