jogging up behind them. She was young, maybe in her twenties. She was dressed so… wrong, so provocatively, like some sort of Playboy bunny. She looked very out of place. “I’ll take her,” she said to the men. “Who are you?” “Naomi. I work for Mr. Sloane.” “Never heard of him.” The guard who was clearly in charge motioned to another man. “We’ll take her in too.” “You’ll be sorry if you do,” Naomi said. “Call it in. I’ll wait. Ask your boss to call Mr. Sloane.” The guards looked at each other. Naomi grabbed one of their
