Valiant Defender

by Shirlee McCoy

  He didn’t ask, because Portia was hanging on to her every word, nearly hanging over the seat in her eagerness to get the story. “So, you were going to have kids and everything?”

  “Sure. Just because a woman is in the military doesn’t mean she doesn’t want those things.”

  “Oh, I know that,” Portia said. “I’ve seen plenty of female officers on base who have kids. I just thought that because you were so old and not married—”

  “Portia!” Justin said. “She’s not old.”

  Gretchen laughed. “I think that depends on what side of twenty you’re standing on. What are you, Justin? Thirty-two?”

  “Thirty-four,” he corrected.

  “I’m twenty-eight. Portia is sixteen. I’m sure, from her perspective, we’re both ancient.”

  “Actually, I didn’t mean old,” Portia explained. “What I meant was that a lot of women your age are already married and have children.”

  “Right. How about we change the subject?” Justin suggested, and Gretchen laughed again.

  “You seem more uncomfortable than I am, and I’m the one she called old.”

  “Really, Gretchen,” the teen said, “I didn’t mean that. My mom always used to say I needed to learn to think before I spoke. I guess I haven’t mastered that yet.”

  “That’s okay. Neither have I,” Gretchen responded. “But since your dad wants to change the subject, how about we talk about the safe house again?”

  “What about it?” Portia asked suspiciously.

  “Your father is right to be concerned for your safety, and you aren’t going to be safe on base.”

  “I can go back to Michigan for a while. I’m sure Addie and her parents will let me stay there for a few weeks. Maybe I can even take classes at the high school. Until it’s safe to come back.”

  There was a hopeful edge to her voice that Justin didn’t miss, and if he could have agreed to the plan, he would have.

  “Sullivan is extremely dangerous. He’s killed innocent people. Some of his victims were people he had a vendetta against. Some were just in his way,” he said. “If he followed you to Michigan—”

  “Don’t even say it, Dad. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to Addie or her family.”

  “Then you understand why I can’t let you do that.”

  “I understand, but I still want to go home,” she said so quietly he almost didn’t hear.

  “How about we plan a trip for winter break?” he suggested, glancing in the rearview mirror. The street was empty. No cars. No people. Nothing that would lead him to believe that Sullivan was nearby. But his skin was crawling, his nerves alive with warning.

  “A trip where?” Portia asked, oblivious to the danger that might be stalking them.

  “To Michigan. The management company I hired to rent out your house is doing a good job, but I’d like to a do a walk-through of the property. Just to make certain everything is being maintained.”

  “You’d really bring me there for Christmas?” Portia asked.

  “As long as this thing with Sullivan is settled, yes. Otherwise, it might have to wait until spring break.” He glanced in the rearview mirror again. This time, he thought he saw a car in the distance. Lights off. Moving slowly.

  “What is it?” Gretchen asked.

  “Probably nothing.”

  “Then why do you keep looking in the rearview mirror?”

  “Just a feeling.”

  She turned to look out the back window, her arm brushing his again. “Is that a car?”

  “I think so.”

  “It’s moving slowly. No lights. You think it’s Sullivan?”

  “Is it?” Portia asked, her voice shaking. “Do you think he followed us?”

  “No,” Justin responded. But he wouldn’t put it past Sullivan to figure out where they were headed or to try to keep them from getting there. It would be a risky move. Security Forces were already out searching for him. Sullivan had to know that, but he hated making mistakes and he hated losing.

  In basic training, he’d talked big, bragging that he was the best and the brightest. The strongest. The most capable. If he hadn’t been a psychopath with no regard for others, he would have done okay and had a good air force career.

  But he was a psychopath.

  When he’d made mistakes during training, it had always been someone else’s fault. Justin had broken up several fights that Boyd had started because he’d believed another recruit had sabotaged him or made him look bad.

  No doubt, the mistake he’d made tonight, the fact that he’d almost been captured, was Justin’s fault. Or Gretchen’s. Or even Portia’s.

  Boyd would want his revenge, and he’d want it quickly.

  He wouldn’t care who he had to hurt to get it.

  Justin accelerated, driving above the speed limit.

  The car behind him did the same.

  Now there was no mistaking it. The car was tailing them. And whoever was driving it meant business.

  Deadly business.

  * * *

  Gretchen called for backup as Justin swerved onto a busier street, and then unhooked her seat belt and crawled into the back with Portia.

  “It’s going to be okay,” she assured the teenager, her attention on the car that was still behind them.

  “Is it him?” Portia asked, levering up beside her.

  Gretchen grabbed her arm, pulling her down. “Keep your head down. Let’s not give him a target.”

  “Your head is up,” Portia argued, but she’d dropped low, her forehead to her knees.

  “I am being paid to get a good look at the vehicle. You are not.” Only she couldn’t see much. Just the outline of a car flying through the red light at the intersection they’d just passed through. “He’s going to kill someone,” she muttered, radioing in the location and the direction they were traveling.

  This section of base offered plenty of places to hide, she noted as they sped past. Several small businesses lined the streets, all of them closed at this time of night. There were alleys and Dumpsters and doors that could easily be jimmied and opened. Fences. Delivery trucks parked beside buildings.

  If she were trying to elude the police, she’d be taking cover somewhere. Whoever was in the car didn’t seem to have the same idea. The driver accelerated, flying through a stop sign and speeding after them. Not gaining on them but not falling behind.

  “He’s still there,” she said even though she was sure Justin already knew that.

  “It’s Boyd,” he replied, taking a turn a little too quickly. The SUV squealed in protest, and Quinn whined. He was either scared or eager to be out of the vehicle and on the hunt. Based on what she’d seen during the past few months, Gretchen was confident it was the latter.

  “If you slow down, I may be able to get a positive ID. I don’t want to shoot until I’m certain of who I’m shooting at.” She opened the window anyway, leaning out and trying to get a look at the vehicle’s license plate.

  The driver slowed the vehicle, bumped over the curb and rolled to a stop. The door flew open, and the driver jumped out. She saw the flash before she heard the gunshot.

  One. Two shots.

  She had her firearm out and was pulling the trigger, protecting Portia and Justin, keeping her focus on the shooter, as Justin took another turn.

  Headquarters was just ahead, and he sped into the parking lot, pulled up to the front doors and braked hard.

  “Get her into the building,” he shouted, hopping out of the SUV and opening Gretchen’s door.

  “You aren’t planning on going back there,” she protested as she ran around the side of the car, gun in her right hand, left arm throbbing and nearly useless. She managed to open Portia’s door, anyway, grabbing the teen’s hand and nearly dragging her out.

  “Yeah. I am.
I want Boyd behind bars. Tonight is as good a time as any to make sure that happens.” Justin opened the back of the SUV and released Quinn, giving the dog the command to find and taking off before Gretchen had the door to HQ open.

  “Dad!” Portia called, yanking away.

  Gretchen tucked her gun into its holster and snagged the back of Portia’s shirt. “We need to get inside.”

  “But—” The crack of a gunshot interrupted whatever she planned to say. The bullet wasn’t fired from close enough to be dangerous, but that didn’t mean anything. Boyd knew his way around the base, and no doubt he was working his way near enough to shoot Justin or Portia.

  “Inside. Now!” Gretchen opened the door and shoved Portia into the building. An MP was running toward them, boots pounding on the tile floor.

  “Take her to a room without windows and keep her there,” Gretchen ordered, and then she closed the door and ran in the direction Justin and Quinn had gone. Right at the shooter.

  SIX

  Quinn was on the hunt, moving quickly and without hesitation. Ears up. Stride long. Focused but not sniffing the ground. Not trying to find a scent. He knew what he was after, and he knew where to find it. The question was, would they get there before Boyd escaped? Or fired off a round that hit its target?

  Justin raced after the Malinois, praying that these would be Boyd’s last moments of freedom. He wanted this over. Too many people had been killed. Too many people were still in danger.

  As far as he was concerned, no one on base would be safe until Boyd was behind bars.

  He rounded a street corner and his heart dropped.

  Three MP cars were parked at the curb, lights flashing. But there was no sign of Boyd’s car, and no sign of Boyd.

  Someone raced up behind him, feet pounding the ground.

  Gretchen.

  He knew it before he turned. Knew absolutely that she’d done what he’d commanded—made sure Portia was safely inside the building.

  And then she’d done exactly what he’d hadn’t wanted her to do.

  She’d followed him.

  “I wanted you to stay with Portia in the building,” he said as she reached his side. They were still running hard, Quinn suddenly pivoting away from the MPs’ vehicles.

  “I belong here,” Gretchen responded. Not panting. Not struggling.

  She had to be in pain, though.

  She’d removed the sling the doctor had given her at the hospital, and he could see blood on the gauze bandage that covered the wound. “You’re bleeding again.”

  “How about we focus on what we’re here to do?” she replied. “Do you think Quinn has his scent?”

  “It’s possible. We’ve tracked vehicles before, but it will be difficult for him to follow the trail if we get to a more heavily trafficked area.” And that was where they seemed to be heading. There were a few bars and restaurants in this area, most opened late.

  “Which is exactly where we’re headed.”

  “Right.”

  “He’s done his research.”

  “Boyd takes pride in his intelligence. When I knew him, he loved to throw random facts out to impress people. It wouldn’t surprise me if he spent months researching military working dogs and the way they work.”

  “Too bad he didn’t take pride in his compassion for others.”

  “I doubt he knows what compassion feels like. He certainly wouldn’t see it as a strength.”

  Quinn was trotting back, nose to the ground. He’d lost the scent and was trying to pick it up again. They could continue, or they could return to headquarters. If Portia hadn’t been there, Justin might have been tempted to keep working the trail and letting his K-9 try to find the scent.

  But the likelihood of success was small, and he was worried about Portia.

  He wanted her off base and in a safe house.

  The sooner that happened, the better.

  “Heel,” he commanded, and Quinn loped to his side.

  “Good work, buddy,” Justin said, scratching the dog behind his ears and under his chin.

  “He looks disappointed,” Gretchen said as they turned back.

  “He is. He likes to win the game, and this time he didn’t.”

  “I get the impression that you like to win, too,” she commented, folding her left arm and using her right hand to support it.

  “Depends on the game. When it comes to my job? Yeah. I want to win every time. Hold on.” He touched her shoulder and stopped.

  “You want to keep searching for him?” she asked, her attention on the road and the few cars that were driving by.

  He could have told her that Boyd had probably already abandoned the car and was running as far and as fast as he could. He might want revenge, but he also wanted his freedom. Free, he could continue to terrorize people, and the desire to do that seemed to be his driving force.

  “No. We’ll go after him again. After I get Portia taken care of.” He unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged out of it. His kept a uniform at the office, and he’d be able to replace it when he got there.

  “What are you doing?” Gretchen asked as he fashioned the shirt into a makeshift sling, his white T-shirt nearly glowing in the streetlight. If Boyd were anywhere nearby, Justin would make an easy target.

  “Here.” He looped the makeshift sling around Gretchen’s neck, then lifted her left arm gently and slid it into place. “See? Perfect.”

  “Did you learn creative uses for your shirt while you were in basic training?” she asked, her cheeks pink.

  He’d never seen her blush, and he found himself studying her face—high cheekbones and delicate features, full lips and flawless skin. He’d never thought of her as more than a comrade, an airman, a partner, but she was a woman, too. One who’d been in love, who’d nearly gotten married, who’d lost her fiancé.

  He started walking again, because if he let himself, he’d keep staring into her face and into her eyes, and that was no way to keep things professional.

  “I learned how to make a shirt sling the summer I turned eleven,” he said, determined to not feel awkward or discomfited. He liked Gretchen as an airman and a person. Noticing that she was lovely didn’t mean that he’d crossed some well-marked line. It just meant that he’d noticed.

  It was his job, after all, to pay attention.

  He could have kept telling himself that until the cows came home, and it wouldn’t have changed the fact that he’d worked with a lot of women and he’d never paid attention to their hair or eyes or skin.

  “Were you one of those outdoorsy types? Always prepared for whatever happened?” she guessed.

  “No. My father pulled my arm out of the socket. He popped it back in himself. He didn’t want to bother with doctors and medical bills. So I made a sling out of an old shirt and used it until the shoulder felt better.” It wasn’t a story he’d ever shared, and he wasn’t sure why he was sharing it now.

  “Were you roughhousing?”

  “That’s one way to put it.”

  “So, he did it on purpose?” she asked, and he could hear the surprise in her voice.

  “I wouldn’t say that. He was trying to drag me into the house, and I didn’t want to go.”

  “Oh.”

  “You say that as if you get it,” he commented.

  “I don’t. I was very fortunate. My parents were and are great people, but I understand what you’re not saying. And I’m sorry. It sounds like your childhood was hard.”

  “It could have been easier.”

  “You’ve made sure Portia’s is. You’re a really good dad, Justin.”

  “You’ve seen me with Portia a handful of times. You don’t have much to base that on.”

  “She’s here. Living on base with you. You could have sold her mother’s house and used the money to help raise her.”

 
“Melanie paid off the house a few months before she died. She was always really good with money,” he replied, because it was the truth. They might not have worked as a couple, but he’d liked Melanie. Maybe even loved her in the way people loved long-distance family.

  “All the more reason to sell it. At least, some people would think so. You could have a nice little nest egg sitting in the bank. Instead, you’re paying a management company to rent the place out so that Portia can have it one day.”

  “That doesn’t make me a good father. It just makes me a decent human being.”

  “Why are you so opposed to the idea that you might actually be good at parenting?” she asked.

  He could tell her that his parents had been poor examples and that he felt pretty certain he would mess up like they had, but they’d reached the cruisers, the strobe lights flashing across the pavement and nearby buildings. Three patrol officers were standing near the street, and they were as good an excuse as any to pretend he hadn’t heard the question.

  “I’d better go talk to them. See if they saw anything. Maybe we can get surveillance footage of the vehicle.” He pointed at security cameras attached to the eaves of the corner store.

  “Good thinking,” she replied. “I’ll go check on Portia.” She took off, not running, but not walking, either.

  Maybe she’d felt what he had—lines being crossed, too much personal information being exchanged.

  It wasn’t uncommon for partners to share the details of their lives. He’d known just about everything there was to know about Corbin’s family, his childhood, his hobbies. They’d been partners when they were on duty and buddies when they weren’t, and there hadn’t been anything strange or awkward about it.

  After Corbin was killed, Justin had worked with a few other MPs while he was training as a K-9 handler. He’d never worried that lines were being crossed with his female partners. He’d hung out with them after work sometimes, gone to their houses for dinner if they had husbands or kids. He’d been a brother to some of them, and to some he’d just been the guy they worked with.