Was the site down for you all as well today? Weird, Anyways, here's chapter 4, enjoy!

Warnings: None

Unbeta AF

Can You Keep A Secret?

Chapter 4

Sycophants and Those Who Hate Them

Ricardo 'Carlos' Manoso started his day off, at 5AM, with a one mile jog around the National Mall in Washington D.C. A brisk 8 minute jog that got his heart pumping the fog from his brain lifting. He loved running in the winter, the sharp bite of the cold air in his lungs and the sweat chilling faster on his back helped push him to go an extra half mile. He thought about pushing his run up to two miles in the cold but that could possibly cut into his morning time.

After his jog, he would make his way into the penthouse of his office building, wash and get ready for the day. Was it a day of meetings? Did he have to go to houses of places of business to check equipment or handle do a security plan out. What was on his schedule for the day dictated what he wore, be a power suit of cargo pants and a shirt.

All black; Rangeman standard.

Carlos looked down at his schedule, on his phone and found he had only one thing to do. The FBI contract that would net him a tidy seven figure profit. A long term one at that, requiring all the security features that his company, Rangeman had to offer, including round the clock bodyguard work. This was highly unusual, even for FBI standard, but the agent putting it all together wasn't standard.

Jeanne Ellen Borrows, once upon a time, had been Carlos's lover. They had ended on friendly terms, Carlos setting up his business and Jeanne busy with climbing the ranks at the FBI. She was now head of the missing persons division and Rangeman was in several states now. They occasionally had lunch together and the last lunch they had, she offered him a contract for security.

"I can only tell you what it's about after you accept, Carlos," Jeanne said, sipping her water, "This job is not your ordinary security job and I believe you're the most capable man for this job."

"What are the rules and stipulations, if I accept?" Carlos asked and Jeanne smirked into her glass and muttered, "Smart man…"

She took out the start of the contract and passed it to Carlos, only two pages, with what would happen, should anything in the contract be broken, "These are the penalties for breaking the contract, you will get the full contract in a secured area, should you accept, too many ears and eyes in this area."

Carlos read the penalties and flinched inwardly. A fine of 10 million dollars, stripped of his military ranking, 5 to 10 years in a federal prison and security clearance gone, with no possibility of getting it back. Carlos read through the paperwork again and again and said, "Seems cut and dry, these steep fines tell me I'm not dealing with a typical contract."

"Do you accept?" Jeanne asked, dabbing her mouth with a napkin and then Carlos was nodding his head, "Good," she raised her hand to the passing server and said, "Check please, and some to-go boxes," when the man left, Jeanne turned to Carlos and said, "We'll finish this at headquarters, in privacy."

Carlos pulled out a soft green dress shirt and a pair of beige slacks and loafers, pulling on his outfit, remembering Jeanne's sharp, "No black clothing, tell the men you choose for this contract that as well."

He pulled his hair back in a ponytail, pulled his watch on and then went to the dining room of the penthouse, where a meal of egg whites mixed with spinach, feta cheese and turkey sausage waited for him, alongside a cup of green tea. He ate his meal at a steady pace, pulling his phone out to read the news. His eyebrow twitched as he looked at the news scrolling across his phone's screen.

'The widow of alleged serial killer Barton Wilkes demands survivors come forward to tell the real truth,' Carlos looked at the headlines and then read the article. He couldn't believe the outrage, against the victims. He had been following this story, since news broke that two of Barton's victims survived their captivity. Jane Doe A and B had been taken hostage in April and found on the side of the road in November. Carlos had seen the leaked crime scene photos of the bunker, of the rooms the victims had been held in, a literal hell hole. The images of the 'playroom' had made Carlos's stomach recoil. Seven months, how the two women survived, he didn't know.

He hoped to find out soon, after all, they were his clients. The lucrative contract had been a bodyguard and full security gig for two survivors of Barton Wilkes. They had been put into protective custody, due to death threats, threats of violence from people who supported Barton Wilkes and his crazed widow. He knew the FBI was actively looking for the group responsible for putting out a hit on the two 'paid actors of the state.'

He hoped they got the whole damn book thrown at them, Carlos thought as he placed his empty plate and cups on the waiting tray and covered it. He went to the bathroom to brush his teeth and then was grabbing his briefcase and leaving the office. He made his way down the underground garage of Rangeman D.C., going over to his Porshe 911 Turbo and was peeling out the garage to Fairfax Regional Hospital.

He made it to the hospital in 30 minutes and parked in the back, in staff parking, flashing the badge Jeanne had given him to get through the now strict security of the hospital. Carlos climbed out the car and then made his way up to the 17th floor in the staff elevator. He had spied a few reporters, near the tiny, closed off ward, trying to talk to the staff, about the victims and walked by them. The two agents waiting at the door patted him down, looked at his badge and let him in, with little fanfare. Jeanne was waiting for him by the hospital door and nodded her head, approving of the look he had chosen.

"Good, no black," She said and then held her hand up and said, "Let me introduce you first," she opened the door, with a swift knock, saying, "Ms. Plum, Ms. Brittany, I'm here with the owner of the security firm who will keep you safe."

Jeanne motioned for Carlos to walked in and the man found himself looking at two women, who were on the bed that was furthest from the door, holding one another's hand, shoulders hunched, the hand grip they had for one another was tight with nervous tension. Huddled in a corner, hoping that they wouldn't get hurt by Carlos. Here he was, an unknown man, entering their first safe spot in almost a year. He needed to make himself open to them, to not scare them.

Carlos set his briefcase on the side table and opens his hands to the side, in an open gesture, relaxing his shoulders and showing that he was harmless. Carlos nodded his head, not taking any other step forward, saying, "Good morning, I'm Ricardo Carlos Manoso, CEO of Rangeman, you can call me Carlos."

Both women had the look that many POWs wore, he had worn that look as well. The haunted, far away look, but there was a sharp guarded glint in them. The blue eyed woman was the first to speak, looking at Carlos quickly, before looking past his shoulder, "Hello, Carlos," her voice stiff.

The woman with two different colored eyes said nothing but then grabbed a white board and wrote down something and showed it to Carlos, 'Hello,' the board read. Carlos heard Jeanne mutter to him, "She's mute…"

Carlso inclined his head and then sat down in the chair by the door, placing Jeanne between him and the women, so that they had a buffer, maintaining his distance and looking at the women, as he took out paperwork from his briefcase, "I'll be watching over you both in protective custody and setting up the security layout for where you live and work."

Carlos handed two sheets to Jeanne, who got up and gave it to the women. He went over the security details on the paper, "You both will have a bodyguard 24/7, panic buttons and non-evasive trackers on your persons."

He watched the two women read the paperwork, and explained how his crew was putting security in the safe house they were being placed in and how people would have background checks done on them, and thoroughly searched before entering and leaving the place, should the need for someone to see the women occur. He watched as the mute woman wrote something on the board and she lifted the board for Carlos to read.

'Do you believe that we faked the whole thing?' She tapped the board with her marker and Carlos found it interesting that she hadn't mouthed the words, like many people who were muted did.

"Do you?" The curly brown haired woman asked, making Carlos look to her, "Do you think we just 'paid actors of the state?'"

"No, I believe you," Carlos said, relaxing his shoulders, looking at them both, "I'm not sorry to say this but this is something no sane person would make up to gain money from. I understand what you two have gone through, from personal experience. Those people out there, who are demanding action and or idolizing a serial killer will never be in your shoes and as much as I would like to say I wish they knew how it felt, I won't. It's something I would never wish upon anyone, you've two been through enough, Agent Jeanne and I will see to it that the sycophants are kept at a distance from you both."

The mute woman erased her question and then wrote something else, 'Sycophants, that's a big word, right there.'

Carlos felt a smile try to tug at his mouth and the brown haired woman beside the mute woman did smile. Carlos could feel the tension that had filled the room ease down. Good, he wanted the women to be comfortable around him. They spoke for about an hour, the women asking questions and Carlos answering them. They would be out of the hospital and to their new home in about a week, Carlos wanted to set up the security of the place, place a parameter and find a rooster of bodyguards for the women. From the file he looked at, men dressed in all black were out of the picture. That's fine, it was better for their bodyguards to blend in.

The mute woman, whom he found out was named Brittany, was terrified of tall, bulky men, he had noticed all the hospital staff that tended to the women were either women or men who were average size. He knew some of his men could be intimidating, when they wanted to be, but Brittany was way too rattled and traumatized. He needed to find someone special for her. His brother, who helped run Rangeman Miami would be a good fit for her, Alejandro Manoso was tall, but lean, his muscles hidden and his charismatic personality and the way he spoke softly would most likely be better for her.

As for Stephanie, the curly brown haired woman, he might be able to shuffle a few people for her, including himself. She hadn't been his target, she had been abducted because Barton apparently liked his targeted victims to watch what fate would befall them. She was holding it together better than the other woman, protective of the mute woman, who had taken the brunt of the torture. She could do with several of his men, he had some talkative men, including Lester, who was neck deep in love with Jeanne, so that might help.

He left the women, two hours later, after answer all their questions. They had several of them and by the time he finished talking to them he had a feeling only a thin sliver of doubt and tension remained. Jeanne had been kind enough to give him the address to the safe house and so he went to do a once over. It was a nondescript house, in the affluent area of D.C., an area that allowed for privacy between neighbors. He let himself into the house, with the keys provided and called up the head of security instillation for the D.C., who arrived in less than 30 minutes.

"Pretty swanky area," Justin Richards, an older man with grey hairs at the edge of his blond hair, his brown eyes raking the area in, "Lots of politicians here, the newest client a politician?"

"Might as well be," Carlos said, looking over to the man, "Richards, get an installing team together, make sure they have security clearance. Make sure they're airtight too, no leaks, no potential for leaks. No personal phones, Rangeman phones on the property during the installing of security gear, got it?"

"Got it, Bossman," Justin said, as Carlos handed him the list of equipment needed, "I'll make sure nothing leaks, we have a week to this? Plenty of time for my crew."

"I trust you, Richards," Carlos nodded his head, handing the man a copy of the house keys, "Get rid of that shitty home security as well, make sure all the exits and windows can lock properly and are equipped with sensors."

"Got it," Justin saluted Carlos and then walked away from the man to do his own sweep through to find the best places to put cameras and sensors at. Carlos would leave him to it, this is where Justin shined the most.

He went back to Rangeman D.C. and spoke with the head of tech about creating customized trackers and panic buttons for the two women. Hector, who only spoke Spanish, assured him that he would make something fashionable and inconspicuous for the women before puttering around in his lab to make the items.

Carlos spent the rest of his day in the office, shuffling clients around and wishing his second in command, Tank was here to do this, but he was in the Miami office, getting one of his men ready to lead it, since Alejandro accepted his request to come up to D.C. for the gig. He was glad his relationship with his brother hadn't festered, like the relationship with his parents did, otherwise, his Abuela would be rolling in her grave now, about the fact that Carlos had pushed everyone away despite her best work.

Up until the age of 13, Carlos had been nothing but trouble, as his older brother would say. He was always the one to get in trouble at school, always the one to get in trouble with the law. He was beginning to run with the wrong crowd and his parents had been at their wits end. How could they prevent their child from becoming another statistic, how could they stop the boy from self-destruction?

Rosa Maria Manoso, Carlos's grandmother, told his parents, in a firm voice to ship him to Newark, he would live with her. At first Carlos had thought his parents and his Abuela were joking. No way was he going to go from Miami to New Jersey, they couldn't make him! One 9 hour bus trip, with two suitcases, however, proved him wrong.

His abuela was strict, the first thing she had him do, when she took him to her house was help in the kitchen. He had argued that cooking and clean was a woman's job, but then his abuela told him, if that was the case, only the women in her house would eat, which meant he didn't eat dinner that night. He corrected his tone the next day, when she asked for him to help with breakfast. After that he learned to cook and clean, his abuela saying that he may grow into a handsome young man, but if he didn't know how to look after himself, he wouldn't be any good to a woman.

He had to thank his grandmother for turning his life around. He graduated school, joined the Army and climbed the ranks, before being whisked off to join the Special Ops. He did government contracts for a while before retiring and opening his business. He made sure his grandmother was taken care of, until she died and kept in contact with his brother who had gone to college, got picked up by an organization, disappearing for several years before returning to the land of living and helping his brother with Rangeman.

Carlos drummed his fingers on the surface of his desk, as he looked at paperwork, his mind going back to the women in the hospital room. He would help them, in any way he could, even if that was just keeping people with ill intentions away from them. He had a feeling that there was going to be a lot of issues they would face.

(~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~)

"How utterly barbaric," Someone muttered, looking around the room they were in, lips curling up in a sneer at the sheer depravity, "If the beast of a man wasn't dead now, I would have killed him myself, not fit for life…"

The person took their time, looking around the room, searching for something. It had been easy to confound the agents that kept watch over the property and waltz right in. They weren't interested in any of the things that had been found in the 'bunker' of Barton Wilke's property, they were after something more delicate, intangible.

As they walked passed the metal table that dominated the middle of the 'playroom,' as it had been dubbed, they paused, finding what they were looking for, a scant amount of magic, almost untraceable, but they had felt it, ancient magic that had thought to be lost through the ages. They hadn't been crazy when they had felt that strange pulse, it had been real. The wielder of the magic was out there, but where to find them?

The person inhaled the magical scent deeply before it faded away and then stood up, tracing their fingers along the wall and pausing as they felt something off about the part of the wall they touched. A quick search for the switch had the false wall moving to the side to reveal dozens, upon dozens of tapes, DVDS, memory cards and items, items that Barton Wilkes had taken from his victims. The FBI hadn't found this yet? Strange, well, they would leave it open for-

The paused, seeing a memory card with a date that was fairly recent, labeled 'My Petite Lamb.' Interesting, with a flick of their wrist a copy of the memory stick rested in the palm of their hand and they were leaving the property all together, with a mere whisper of movement in the air. When they returned back to their place of residence, they stuck the memory card in their computer and found dozens, upon dozens of videos, all of the same women, it seemed, the last victim of Barton Wilkes, before he died. The person clicked on one of the videos and watched as the video began to play.

It was small woman of color, panting heavily, chained to a chair at a dining room table. Her hair was pulled back and in the harsh light above the dining room table, he could see that the woman had different colored eyes, an interesting feature for sure. She had the signs of being tortured all over her nude form, and on the dining room table surface, on a bed of velvet, needles of various sizes gleamed in the light, their purpose unknown to the person watching. They watched as Barton Wilkes, dressed in all black from head to toe walked over to the woman, running fingers down her face, leaning down to inhale her scent, before the madman's voice, distorted from a voice changer demanded the woman to, "Sing our favorite song, Petite Lamb, the one we made up, together and don't stop singing, as I play with you."

The woman let out whimper of fear and began to sing, in a broken, weak voice, looking into the camera, "M-mister h-had a little lamb…little lamb, Mister had a little lamb, whose fleece was dark as c-coal…" The person watching the video looked away, closing the computer as the woman's screams began to bounce off the walls of the room that had been recorded, as the use of the needles were shown on camera but she did not stop singing. Disgusting, absolutely disgusting but they were sure that woman had to have been the one to use that magic. They needed to find them and soon, another lifetime or two of waiting would be annoying, not when that magic and the person wielding it was so close…so-so close.

They hoped the FBI enjoyed the gift that had been given to them, should make the feverish crowd demanding the heads of the survivors die down.

Or not, humans were weird, when they wanted to be.

TBC….

Carlos is here and so is someone else...doesn't look like a good guy, either!