Meridian File Read online

  Praise for CB SAMET

  “CB Samet is a master of the craft …”

  Readers’ Favorite Review 2017

  “"CB Samet has a way of bringing you into the hair-raising suspense, keeping you at the edge of your seat.”

  Voracious Readers Reviewer

  “There is plenty of romance, intrigue, and drama in this book to keep the paged turning.”

  Booksprout Reviewer

  Meridian File

  The Rider Files, Book 1

  CB SAMET

  Contents

  Untitled

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Dear Reader

  The Rider Files Series

  Also by CB SAMET

  Masters File

  For my many friends and coaches

  past and present who enjoy the game

  © Novels by CB Samet 2017

  This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

  Cover Art: CirceCorp design - Carolina Fiandri

  (circecorpdesign.com)

  * * *

  This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  ISBN ebook: 978-1-54391-333-0

  ISBN print: 978-1-7324525-4-1

  Created with Vellum

  1

  Tennis kept Aurora’s mind from dwelling on the death threats. She sprinted forward for a low drop shot. Bending her knees, she sliced under the ball and watched it sail back over the net with a wicked spin.

  Her opponent backpedaled and hit a defensive lob.

  Perfect.

  Stretching high, she spiked the ball hard. It whipped past her opponent after striking the back corner of the service box.

  The crowd gave an enthusiastic coo.

  Aurora pumped a fist as she walked to the back of the court and accepted another ball. She ran the toe of her shoe along the white service line, brushing aside red clay. The clay courts at Park Manzanares provided good preparation for her upcoming matches at Roland-Garros. Paris was the next grand slam.

  Forty-love.

  She tuned out the murmuring of spectators. Bouncing the ball twice, she exhaled slowly.

  Jupiter has sixty-seven moons.

  She leaned back, arms extended forward.

  The speed of light is one hundred eighty-six thousand miles per second.

  Gracefully, she bent her knees.

  Hawaii, Ireland, Greenland, Antarctica, Iceland, and New Zealand have no snakes.

  She paused for a second before the motions to serve.

  Sync.

  Aurora took her racket down and rocked back. Shifting her weight forward, she tossed the ball. Her tall, slender body fully extended as she brought the racket through in one smooth motion.

  Ace.

  A wide smile broke across her face as the small crowd clapped enthusiastically. She gave a victory wave to the fans.

  Game. Set. Match.

  A win.

  One-third into the season and she was off to good start. This was the year.

  Her year.

  She could feel it.

  The threats in the mail had escalated because she was becoming a force with which to be reckoned. Perhaps they were a normal consequence of approaching the status of celebrity.

  She shook hands with her opponent over the net—a Canadian who was ranked thirty spots higher than Aurora. She had played to the other woman’s backhand as strategically planned. The woman’s forehand power and accuracy were deadly. Aurora’s own forehand was respectable but not as powerful. Her strength resided in finesse, but she had been working on improving her power.

  Ice. Need ice.

  Her ankle begged for relief. What had begun early in the match as a dull ache had progressed to a stabbing pain.

  She signed a handful of autographs as she made her way with her tennis bag to the women’s locker room. With deliberate effort, she avoided the appearance of limping. The media didn’t need fodder to start broadcasting her weakness.

  Out of the shadows emerged a tall, lean figure.

  Aurora caught her breath, her heart quickening. “Dr. Ruchkin. Oh my gosh. You almost gave me a heart attack.”

  The aging physician flicked strands of black hair intermixed with white streaks from his face. “My apologies, Miss Meridian.” His low, deep voice with its rich Russian accent echoed in the small corridor. He bowed slightly. “I saw your match had concluded, and I thought I would see if you are in need of my services. How is your ankle?”

  “Fine,” she snapped.

  She had been edgy since receiving the death threats. He shouldn’t be lurking in shadows like a predator.

  “I have treatment options beyond ice and salves,” he offered leisurely.

  “No, thanks.”

  She knew he was talking about steroids or even growth hormones. He had preached the advantages of building her muscle mass for a stronger game and to prevent injury—something about lame horses and weak ankles. Some players on tour partook of enhancements, but Aurora was leery of putting anything in her body designed to alter its natural composition.

  Not sure if that makes me old-fashioned or new age.

  Mason Stone sipped his cup of black coffee and looked calmly at Maxine Rider.

  She scrubbed a pudgy hand across her face. “I want you to keep a low profile until this blows over.”

  “Fine. But I’m not accepting probation. None of this goes in my file because I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  I did my job.

  His boss looked around the small coffee shop before dropping her eyes to her cappuccino. “I know, Mason.”

  “She was high.” He tried to suppress the steam on his simmering temper.

  “I already know that. I know it’s bullshit, and that’s why I’m not grounding you. Just moving you to a low-key case. Very dull.”

  “No high-profile celebrities?”

  “No.”

  “Good,” he said gruffly. He disdained working for spoiled, entitled, twenty-two-going-on-sixteen brats with daddy issues and unlimited access to illicit drugs to self-medicate into raging lunatics or comatose corpses.

  He had been a Navy SEAL, and babysitting was beneath him.

  Maxine slid her tablet over to him. He savored another sip of coffee before thumbing through the electronic file. His eyes roamed the pages.

  He grunted. “Death threats?”

  “Yeah, but it’s a low-ranking tennis player on the circuit—WTP. Probably nothing. The FBI is investigating the letters. Her parents have hired us as security while she’s on tour.”
>
  Women’s tennis professional. He scanned the profile. Professional athlete or not, she could just as easily be on the party scene like the singer from his last case.

  His eyes fell on her date of birth. “Old for a tennis player.”

  “She finished college at age twenty-two before going on the pro tour. She’s been playing all her life. Apparently she was almost somebody six years ago.”

  “And then?”

  Maxine shrugged. “And then she wasn’t.”

  Mason swiped the page to a collage of pictures. Aurora Mercedes Meridian. A lean, fit, blond woman with piercing green eyes stared back at him. Her sun-kissed skin shone radiantly against a white tennis dress. The younger photo of her displayed sharp angles, accentuated by hair pulled severely back in a ponytail. In a more recent photo she seemed softer, more curves. Her blue gown flowed around her like liquid sapphire, while her blond hair cascaded in ringlets down bare, tan shoulders.

  Must be high maintenance, especially with a middle name like Mercedes.

  Skimming the file, he followed the money. The parents. They were financial giants, owning vineyards and restaurants along the West Coast.

  So who mailed Aurora Meridian the hate letters? Someone after her, or someone after her parents?

  “Mason,” Maxine warned. “I know that look. I’m not asking you to solve the client’s problem. You just need to keep her safe until it blows over or the Feds solve it.”

  He nodded absently.

  She leaned forward and put a hand on the tablet’s screen, obstructing his view.

  “Mason,” she repeated.

  “Yes, boss.” He looked up, staring past her with a neutral face.

  “Low profile.”

  “Got it.”

  He shifted his gaze and looked at Maxine. She was a plump, older woman, but there was nothing soft about her. As a former Marine, she had acquired a decisive and fearless nature. Maxine had the contacts to hire quality help—ex-SEALs, ex-Special Forces, ex-Rangers. She put together good teams. It was no secret Maxine had sunk her entire savings into her security company. She prided herself on never losing a client or an employee.

  Now, thanks to him, she faced the possibility of public disgrace. Instead of taking the easy road—firing him to save face—she stood by his innocence. The accusations angered him, but the guilt he felt at what he was putting Maxine through crushed him. He wouldn’t resign, though. He wouldn’t allow anyone to have that type of power over him.

  “And, Mason?”

  “Boss?”

  “Get a haircut. You look like a blond puppy dog.”

  He ran a hand through his long hair. He had grown it out to blend in at the rock scene. His last client had told him he looked like a hit man when it was military short.

  “Aw, Max. I didn’t know you cared.”

  “I don’t,” she lied.

  His gaze wandered to the novel she had been reading while she waited for him to arrive. He caught a glimpse of a shirtless man wearing jeans and a cowboy hat before she flipped the book over and put a hand on top. He looked into her glaring eyes.

  “Does she get the guy?” he asked with a wry grin.

  Maxine was a sucker for romance novels—one of her many quirks. She had confessed one night at a company party after a few drinks that a book wouldn’t cheat, lie, or steal. As such, she had decided it would be her only source of trustworthy romance.

  No one on the team knew all of the details, but they had pieced together that her husband had left her when she served in Afghanistan and her son David had blamed her. They were still estranged.

  “Book your flight,” she said, ignoring his questions. “The client’s in Madrid at a tournament. You’re joining Billy and Dorian. I’m swapping you and Barry.”

  Mason grunted. Barry’s age and balding head would deter any sexual advancement. He could better handle the rock brat without entangled accusations.

  “I gotta book my own flight?” he asked.

  “I ain’t your damn secretary,” she scoffed. “When you earn enough money to pay part of my secretary’s salary or pension or health care, then she’ll book your tickets. Until such time, put on your big boy pants and book your own damn flight.”

  He enjoyed riling her.

  “Business class,” she reminded him.

  “Yes, boss.” He envisioned his long legs on the overseas flight with his knees bent up to his chest in a tiny seat. International travel packed like a sardine.

  Aurora sank into the warm bathwater and closed her eyes. She replayed points from her tennis match in her mind, critiquing her movements and strokes as she thought about how to improve her strategy. She would watch videos later, coaching herself on what she should do differently next time.

  Better movement. More fluidity. “Wheels up, Aurora,” her dad would tell her when she was a little girl. She imagined herself as a young girl, flying across the court. Sometimes her body felt airborne, at least prior to her injury.

  Coach Jareh would tell her “fast feet, fast feet.” She missed having a coach, but a tight budget prevented such luxuries. She had been playing and critiquing herself long enough that she usually knew what parts of her game needed improvement and the mechanics of how to improve them. Still, an observant eye could help guide her.

  Her muscles relaxed as the eucalyptus-scented salts dissolved in the water. Closing her eyes, she wanted to bask in the glory of her win today.

  When she opened her eyes a few moments later, she found herself staring at her red-painted toenails. Blood red. Her pulse quickened as she recalled the threats she’d been receiving. Her stalker had said, among other horrible things, that she would die in a pool of her own blood. Death threats. Letters—old-fashioned ones with cut and pasted words. Nothing electronically traceable.

  Her mouth went dry as her imagination turned her bathwater red. She swallowed and blinked. Normal, clear water surrounded her.

  Taking a deep breath of eucalyptus, she reminded herself that a team of bodyguards hovered one door down. They escorted her to and from every match and stood vigilant as she played. They assured her they would keep her safe.

  The FBI worked diligently to find the stalker.

  Besides, she wasn’t a helpless victim. No easy target. She embodied strength as a fit athlete with a wicked serve. She could put up a fight. Could she win? Could she walk away—run away—without career- ending injury?

  When she exited the bathtub and dried off, she scrubbed the color off her toenails. The sharp scent of acetone replaced the fragrant eucalyptus.

  Pinks and peaches only.

  2

  Mason knocked three times on the hotel room door before it opened a crack.

  “Billy,” he greeted his coworker.

  “Mason,” the short woman replied. She opened the door wider and snapped her black bob cut out of her eyes with a quick motion of her neck.

  He entered, pulling his luggage behind him.

  “How’s it been?” He took a seat in the hotel room’s lounge chair. He had walked most of the kinks out of his legs since the plane flight— flights—but still needed to do some lingering stretches. In lieu of that, he rolled his neck in circles a few times.

  “Good. Quiet.” She knew he wasn’t asking about the weather; he was asking about the client. “Full three-agent team for tournaments. Two for most outings.”

  “Quiet. I like the sound of that.”

  “It’ll be a nice change from the brat you’ve been babysitting. Don’t get me wrong, this one’s still a princess, but without the drugs and nightlife.”

  Mason nodded solemnly.

  Billy spoke again as she sat on the edge of the bed, her voice dropping an octave. “I’m sorry, man. Max told me about the shit that went down.”

  “Yeah.” He ran a hand through his now shorter hair. He still left a little more length than usual.

  “It’ll blow over.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed half-heartedly.

  Billy was a quality p
artner, and he appreciated her letting him know upfront she knew he was innocent. It freed him from feeling like he would have to talk about the incident or explain the circumstances.

  Her lips quirked. “It’s those baby blue eyes, you know. They’ll get you into trouble every time.”

  He arched an eyebrow at her.

  “Not with me, of course. I like brains over beauty. But flighty girls can’t control themselves.”

  “Funny,” he said flatly.

  Billy snorted at her own humor before changing the subject. “The exercise routine is pretty intense.”

  “Oh?”

  “She likes to run, and despite the fact that every hotel has a perfectly functioning treadmill, she likes to run outside.”

  He smiled mischievously. “How’d that work out for Barry?” Mason had no doubt Billy could keep up with the client, she was a tight ball of muscle. But Barry—

  “Bike.”

  “Huh.”

  “Well, technically it was an electric scooter.”

  “Ah. That makes more sense.”

  Barry was a tough brute with lightning fast reflexes, a deadly right hook, and good aim with a Smith & Wesson, but a runner he was not. His scrawny legs couldn’t move his large abdomen at anything resembling a brisk walk, much less a run.

  “Where’s the asset now?”

  “Her room. Across the hall.”

  “And Dorian?”

  “One down from here. You’re with him. We’ve got a door cam set up outside her room. Window is sealed, and there’s no balcony. Fire exits are located at either end of the hall.”