The Protector: MAC: A Cover Six Security Novel

by Lisa B. Kamps

  Then walked inside.

  The man spun around, surprise flashing in his eyes. A cold, flat smile stretched his face. It should have been grotesque. Should have hinted at the twisted soul residing in his chest, at the insanity washing off him, clogging the air with its stench.

  It did none of those things.

  There was nothing about the man that would draw attention. Average height. Average weight. The man could be anyone.

  No—the man was nothing.

  And soon he would be dead.

  "MacGregor. We meet at last." The man walked toward him, stopped a few feet away, that flat smile still in place. "I knew you would be early."

  Mac studied the man with cold eyes. No sign of a concealed weapon and his hands were in front of him, empty except for the hunting knife, its blade smeared with dried blood.

  Mac swallowed back his anger, his fury. Met the man's steady gaze. "Where's TR?"

  "The woman? I'll let her join us in a minute. I am—" He paused, tilted his head as if searching for the right word. "I am excited to finally meet you. Looking at you, I knew I was right."

  Mac shifted his weight, held himself ready as the man studied him. One wrong move and the man would be dead. He was already dead, he just didn't know it. But the man seemed inclined to talk and for that reason alone, Mac would let him live a few minutes longer.

  "Right about what? Who are you?"

  "You may call me Nelson." The man raised the knife, gently caressed the blade with one finger.

  "And you can call me Death."

  The man tilted his head back and laughed, the sound echoing from the walls around them, from the rafters overhead. "I knew you would be a worthy opponent. And when I have finished with you, when I have absorbed your power, I will be unstoppable."

  The man was fucking crazy. Insane.

  And fast.

  Mac had been watching for it, had been waiting for it, yet he almost missed it—that quick blink, that small twitch of the hand a split-second before it swung out, the blade slicing through air.

  Mac caught the man's wrist in his hand, squeezed and twisted until ligaments popped and bones snapped. The man screamed, the cry inhuman. Piercing. Filled with fright. He tried to pull away, whimpering, shaking, his voice a screech of pain and disbelief.

  "No. No, this isn't right. I am the powerful one—"

  "You are nothing." Mac twisted the man's arm, spinning him around as he yanked the limb behind his back. A pop as the shoulder dislocated. A snap as bones broke. Another scream.

  "No. No." The man's knees buckled. The sour stench of urine, sharp with fear, filled the air around them. Mac pulled the man to his feet, spun him around and wrapped one hand around his throat. Squeezed.

  The man struggled, clawed at Mac's wrists with the desperation of one who knew his death was imminent.

  "I am the avenger. Your judge and jury."

  "No—" The man's voice was weaker now, the denial a strangled croak.

  A whisper of a sound floated through the air. A shuffle, a small cry. Mac twisted, using his body to block the man from TR's sight. He leaned closer, his gaze never leaving the man's.

  "I am your executioner. I am your death." Mac released his hold on the man's throat, threw him to the ground. Bent over him, his gaze never wavering. He saw the man's fear, and the knowledge of what was to come.

  Mac placed one hand on the back of the man's head, the other on his jaw. Leaned in, his face close, his voice menacing. "And I sentence you to hell."

  He twisted, snapping the man's neck. Death clouded eyes frozen in fear. Mac shoved the body away from him, heard it hit the ground with a soft thud. Daryl and Jon moved into the barn, rifles slung over their shoulders.

  Mac turned away, hurried toward TR and dropped to his knees beside her. Blood smeared her face and neck, matted her hair and stained the cardigan and silk blouse. The right side of her face was swollen, a flap of skin hanging from the two-inch gash running just below her cheekbone, from her ear to the corner of her mouth.

  Pale blue eyes, clouded with pain and fear, stared up at him. "Mac—"

  "I'm here, babe. It's over."

  She nodded, winced when he reached for her hands. Flinched when he pulled his knife out to slice the tape from her feet and hands. And son-of-a-bitch, he wanted to kill the fucker again. Wanted to destroy him. Tear him from limb-to-limb. Make him suffer—

  Daryl dropped next to him, took the knife from his hand and cut through the tape. Because Mac's hands were shaking. His whole fucking body was shaking.

  With fear.

  With relief.

  Mac slid his arms under TR, lifted her onto his lap and cradled her against his chest. She fisted her swollen hands in his shirt, sobs wracking her body as she said his name, over and over.

  Mac squeezed his eyes shut, pressed a kiss against the top of her head and held her for a long time. Until her sobs slowed, disappeared. Until the tremors racing through her body eased.

  He pushed to his feet, cradling the precious cargo in his arms, and carried her toward the door. She froze, raised her head and met his gaze.

  "I want to see him, Mac."

  "No—"

  "Please. I need to see him. To make sure he's—" Her voice cracked but she didn't stop, didn't hesitate at all. "To make sure he's dead."

  "He's dead, TR."

  "I—I need to see. Please."

  Mac started to tell her again that he was dead, that he'd killed him, but Daryl caught his gaze. Slowly nodded, silently telling him to let TR see.

  Dammit. Mac didn't want her to see the body, didn't want her to see the evidence of what he'd done. But he understood the need driving her to ask, understood what prompted the desperate plea in her voice.

  She needed to see for herself. To know he couldn't come back. To know he would never hurt her again.

  Mac tightened his hold on her, turned around and stepped closer to the body. She shifted in his arms, her hands still wrapped in his shirt, and stared at the twisted body of her tormentor.

  She stared at him for a long time then turned to Mac. "He's dead."

  "Yes."

  "You killed him."

  Mac looked into her eyes, wondered if she could see his lack of remorse, of regret. Wondered if she knew he would do it again. "Yes."

  "He's not a monster."

  "No. He's nothing."

  TR slowly nodded, finally looked away and rested her head against his chest. "I need you, Mac. Please don't let me go. Not yet."

  "I'm never letting you go, babe. Never."

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  "You're hovering."

  "I'm not hovering."

  "Yeah, you are." TR pushed past him and walked into the bathroom, stopped at the sight of her reflection in the mirror. Shouldn't she look different? Shouldn't there be something on her face, in her eyes, to reflect the nightmare she had lived through three days ago?

  Three days. It felt like a lifetime ago. The woman staring back at her should look older—but she wasn't. Nothing had changed. She had the same black hair. The same blue eyes. The same mouth and chin. Everything was the same—except for the red slash running across her right cheek, the edges of the flesh held together by a long row of neat, tiny stitches.

  Three days, and this was the first time she was really looking at it.

  The first time she was making a concerted effort to decide how she felt about it. Did it bother her?

  She wasn't sure.

  Did looking at it bring back every horrifying minute of that night?

  Yes—but she didn't need to see the cut on her cheek to remember that. And the man was dead. He wouldn't hurt her again.

  He would never hurt anyone else again.

  She stared at her cheek for a long time, trying to make sense of the swirling emotions battering her insides. Confusing her. She was upset—but not about the cut or the possibility of a scar.

  She was unsettled and nervous—but not because of what had happened to her.
r />   She was...she frowned, fighting against the admission even though she'd have to face it eventually, even though she knew she couldn't avoid it forever.

  She closed her eyes, mentally separated the emotions that had been her constant companion for the last three days. Placed them in neat little piles, until only one was left.

  Anger.

  Yes, that was it. She was angry.

  Not at what had happened. Not at being hurt. Not even at herself.

  She was angry at Mac. Angry that he had heard her, had heard everything she'd said—not just him, but Daryl and Jon as well—and he still hadn't said anything to her about it. She'd been convinced that she'd never see him again, had felt her heart shatter at the realization—a pain that was a hundred times worse than the cut on her cheek. And she had told him she loved him, how she'd always loved him.

  And he hadn't said a word about it. Not one. Single. Word.

  The subject of her anger stepped into the bathroom, leaned against the doorframe and met her gaze in the mirror. Just the briefest of contacts before his gaze slid away. He jammed his hands in the front pockets of his jeans and stared at something over her shoulder.

  Hovering. The way he'd been hovering since he carried her out of the barn. Asking if she needed anything. Making sure she ate. Caring for her. Even holding her at night when the nightmares came.

  But not touching her.

  And never talking to her, not about that night.

  She clenched her jaw, winced when the movement pulled on the stitches then grabbed her toothbrush from the holder where it rested.

  Right next to Mac's.

  Like they were a real couple. Living together. Technically, she guessed they were. She stayed at his house. Slept in his bed. Shared his bathroom.

  But they didn't talk, not about that night.

  And he never looked at her. Not the way he used to.

  Not at all.

  She slammed the toothbrush against the counter, spun around and crossed her arms in front of her. Mac finally looked over, his gaze holding hers for a few seconds before sliding away again.

  "Are you sure you're up to seeing Chaos? You look a little pale."

  "I'm fine." Even if she wasn't, she'd still go visit Chaos. He was still recovering from surgery, mending from the gunshot wound that had taken his spleen. But he would survive. He would recover and return to work, like being shot was just another day in the office. And he would continue to harass and tease her, to pretend she annoyed the living hell at him—like the big brother she had never had.

  "Skipping a day to rest won't hurt. He'll understand—"

  "I'm not skipping a day. And I don't need to rest."

  Mac's gaze darted toward her, bounced off her cheek and skipped away. And her heart broke just a little more.

  "Is it that awful?" The question she needed answered finally fell from her lips. Weak. Vulnerable. She hated that weakness, wished she was strong enough that she didn't care, that his answer didn't matter.

  But she wasn't, and it did.

  Mac pretended he didn't understand the question, still wouldn't look at her. "Is what that awful?"

  "Me!" She shouted, raised her hand and held it above her cheek. "This. The cut. Is it so hideous that you can't even look at me?"

  Mac finally turned to her, his dark gaze boring into hers with an intensity that made her breath rush from her. "Is that what you think?"

  "Yes." Her voice was quieter, barely a whisper.

  "No, TR. That's not it."

  "Then what is it, Mac? Why won't you look at me? Why won't you talk to me?" And damn her voice for breaking. Damn the tears she tried so hard to blink away. She was tired of crying, had cried enough the last two weeks that she shouldn't have any tears left.

  But maybe it was the tears that finally moved Mac because he was suddenly in front of her, one large hand cupping her good cheek, tilting her head back so she could look into his eyes. What she saw there took her breath away. Frightened her. Delighted her. He hid nothing from her now, letting her see it all.

  Guilt.

  Regret.

  Love.

  Hope.

  Fear.

  "Don't you know you're the most beautiful woman I've ever met? Christ, TR, I can barely fucking breathe whenever I look at you. And the way you look at me? Like I'm some kind of fucking hero?" He ran his hand through her hair, rubbed the strands between his callused fingers. "That's why I walked away from you last year. That's why I fucking turned tail and ran. I'm not a hero, TR."

  "But you are, Mac." She placed a hand in the center of his chest, felt the pounding of his heart against her palm. "You're my hero. You always will be."

  "I'm not a hero, TR. If I was, none of this would have ever happened to you." He moved his hand, let it hover above her injured cheek, dropped it. "I would have stopped it."

  "You couldn't have—"

  "I could have. I was there, TR. I was fucking right there. We should have gone in as soon as we got there. But we didn't—and he cut you. He hurt you. He could have killed you and I wouldn't have been able to do anything about it because I didn't move fast enough."

  Oh God, was that what he thought? That what happened was his fault? That she blamed him? She shook her head, curled her hand in his shirt when he tried to step away. "Mac, it wasn't your fault. I don't know much about how these things work but I do know that assessing the situation is the first step."

  "It doesn't matter. I should have gone in, should have moved faster—"

  "It's not your fault, Mac." She repeated the words, put more force into her voice, but he wasn't listening.

  "I failed you, TR. And you'll remember that every single time you look in the mirror. Do you honestly think I don't want to look you? How can you even think that? How can you stand to look at me, knowing I failed you?"

  "Oh, Mac." She blinked, wiped at her eyes and searched for the words, any words to keep him from pulling away. Not physically—he was still standing right in front of her, still had one hand resting against her cheek—but emotionally. She could feel him distancing himself, could see it in the shadows creeping into his eyes. "I love you, Mac. Please, don't push me away. Not again."

  "I'm not—"

  "You are and you know it."

  He closed his eyes, tilted his head back as the muscles in his jaw bunched and flexed. Let out a deep breath and lowered his head, opened his eyes and gazed down at her. And oh God, what she saw there—vulnerability, need, longing—brought tears to her eyes, nearly brought her to her knees.

  "I heard you. The other night. Everything you said. But you were wrong, TR. You're not weak. You're stronger than you know. Hell, you're stronger than I am—"

  "I'm not, Mac. I'm not—"

  He kept talking, as if he hadn't even heard her. "Every word tore me up, TR. Shredded something inside me I didn't even know existed. When you begged me not to come after you, so certain that bastard was going to kill me. When you said you'd still love me, even after you were gone—Christ, TR, it killed me to hear you say that. To know you were ready to sacrifice yourself for me. I don't deserve that. I don't deserve you."

  TR blinked, forced the tears to stop. Forced herself to release her hold on Mac's shirt. To tilt her chin up and stare at him.

  Forced herself to ask the one question she needed answered—when part of her was afraid of that very same answer. "Do you love me, Mac?"

  Something flashed in his eyes. Strong, feral. Possessive. "I would die for you."

  "That's not an answer."

  "It is—"

  "No, it's not. You're a damn hero, Mac. You would die for anyone." She straightened, kept her gaze locked on his, took reassurance in the surprise flashing in his eyes. "Do you love me?"

  "I—"

  "Yes or no, Mac. Do. You. Love. Me?"

  "Yes, dammit. I love you." He ran the knuckles of one hand over his mouth, across the network of scars covering the lower half of his face. Dark brows pulled low over darker eyes filled wi
th frustration. TR bit back her smile as he struggled, hid the elation bubbling inside her at the sound of that small growl deep in his chest.

  His frown deepened when his gaze met hers. "If not being able to breathe whenever I see you means I love you, then yes. If having my gut twist into fucking knots whenever I think about you means I love you, then yes. Yes, I love you."

  "Are you sure that's not just indigestion?"

  "Dammit, TR. What the hell? What do you want from me?" He looked truly distressed. TR reached for him, to apologize for teasing him, but he stepped back. Started pacing around the room. Back and forth, back and forth.

  "I don't have the flowery words, TR. If that's what you need, I can't give them to you. I'll die for you. I'll kill for you. I'll even invade small countries and topple governments for you if that what's you want. But if it's the flowery words..." He faced her, his broad shoulders slumping in defeat. "I can't do that, TR. I don't know how to. But that doesn't mean I don't love you, because I do."

  She closed the distance between them, ran her hands up his arms, across his shoulders, down to the center of his chest. "Tell me."

  He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulled her closer, his deep eyes dark with emotion. "I love you."

  "Tell me again."

  "I love you."

  She leaned up on her bare toes, pressed a kiss against the corner of his mouth. "Again."

  "I love you."

  "And I love you, Mac. Always. And I'm not going anywhere so you're stuck with me."

  "I don't—"

  She pressed a finger against his mouth, silencing him. "You do."

  He wrapped his hand around her wrist, eased it away from his mouth. "You don't even know what I was going to say."

  "Yeah I do. You were going to give me some line about not deserving me or something."

  "Actually, no." Mac grabbed her around the waist and lifted her off her feet, walked across the room and eased her down onto the counter. She grabbed his shoulders, held herself steady as a small smile teased his mouth.

  "What I was going to say was—I don't think you need to see Chaos today."

  "No?"

  Mac shook his head, stepped between her legs and brushed his mouth against her left ear. "No."