It's 1985, and you're an up and coming actress, but you've recently been getting disturbing letters from a stalker. You're manager has called on the retired CIA agent, Malcom Hope, to come to your aid.

He's scoping the area of your mansion, keeping track of all the entrances and exits. Then he makes it out to the pool area where you are. You're in a little bikini reading a magazine.

He looks at you, tilting his head down so he can see you past his sunglasses. He whistles underneath his breath and makes his way over to you. He has a cigarette hanging from his lips.

"I'm assuming you're the hot-shot I'm putting my life on the line for?"