She moved through the living room, bounded up the stairs to her father's room. There was enough light from downstairs that she could still see but even if there wasn't, she wouldn't have had any trouble. Her father had made sure she knew exactly where everything was, had made her practice looking for it with her eyes closed so she would never have any problems.
There, on the corner of his dresser, sat a small humidor. She went to it, raised the lid and fought back tears as the smell of her father's favorite cigars wafted out of the Spanish Cedar box. She slid her nail around the edge, lifted the corner of the thin wood tray her father had added until she could get her fingers under it to remove it. An envelope, maybe a quarter of an inch thick, rested at the bottom. She grabbed it, shoved it into the inside pocket of her jacket, then replaced the cigars. On an impulse she didn't stop to consider, she grabbed two of the cigars and placed them in the jacket pocket as well.
Kelsey moved to her father's closet, reached for the top shelf. Her fingers brushed against cold metal, wrapped around the edges of the heavy box and pulled it down. Her father's small gun vault. And oh God, why had he kept it locked up here, where it couldn't help? If he'd had his gun, maybe—
No, she couldn't think like that. Not now. Later, when she was far away from here, maybe. But not now.
She snagged the key from the top drawer of the dresser and opened the box, pulled out the pistol and released the clip, checked the chamber. Clear. She slammed the clip back in, double-checked to make sure the safety was on, then shrugged out of her backpack. She started to place the gun inside then hesitated. It wouldn't help her if she needed to use it and couldn't get to it.
But would she be able to use it? Would she be able to pull it on someone and shoot if necessary?
She thought of her father downstairs. Thought of the daughter she hadn't seen in six months. Yes. Yes, she'd be able to use it if she needed to.
She tucked the gun into the waistband of her jeans and tossed the other two clips—both full—into the backpack. A box of ammo followed. Then she shrugged back into the pack and headed out of the room. Impulse made her turn into the spare room that served as her father's office. There, along the far wall, was the shelf where he kept the mementos from a lifetime of military service. She made her way over to it, snagged the dog tags from the small hook next to the shelf and draped them over her head before tucking them into her loose sweatshirt. His jump wings went into her front pocket.
Then she raced down the steps, averting her gaze from her father's lifeless body. He was gone. She had said her goodbyes. There was nothing more she could do. Not here. Not now.
Biting back tears and grief, she made her way to the kitchen and grabbed the keys to the shed before letting herself out of the house. It was completely dark now, with very few lights shining from the neighbors' yards. She made her way across the small backyard and unlocked the shed, opened the door and let herself inside. Returning to her car was out of the question now. She had no way of knowing where Grady's men were, couldn't take the chance that they were already here, waiting for her to return to her car before fleeing. It was nothing more than instinct but she had nothing else to go on—and it was too risky to ignore the urgency propelling her forward, dictating each move she made.
She grabbed the helmet from the sleek handlebars of the motorcycle and dropped it over her head before raising the kickstand with her foot. She pushed the bike from the shed, paused long enough to close the door and lock it, then wheeled the bike through the gate of her father's backyard.
For two blocks she pushed it, sweat beading her forehead, exertion and fear and urgency pounding in her chest, urging her forward.
You know what to do, Katydid.
Yes, she knew.
Head east. To safety.
To help.
But where? To West Virginia and the tiny off-grid cabin nobody else knew about?
Or to Maryland? To Daryl Anderson—the man her father swore would protect and guard her if things ever reached this point?
She didn't know, couldn't decide. Not yet, not when her mind was still reeling.
Kelsey swung her leg over the seat and started the motorcycle, felt the smooth power of the engine roar to life between her legs.
No, she didn't know, not yet. But she still had a little bit of time to figure it out—about fourteen or fifteen hours of travel along the back roads, following the route her father made her memorize more than six months ago.
West Virginia?
Or the man with the sun-streaked hair and eyes the color of liquid amber, with the reassuring smile and, she prayed, the strength to slay dragons?
Chapter Four
Grady Byrne curled his hand around the receiver, took a deep calming breath through his nose, just like his therapist had taught him. It worked only inasmuch as controlling his well-modulated voice when he spoke. It didn't do a damn thing to control the rage boiling inside him.
"What do you mean, you don't know where she is?"
There was a pause on the other end of the line, as he knew there would be. Despite the control in his voice—a voice that held the faintest of an oft-practiced lilt—the man on the other line could hear his anger. He'd be a fool if he didn't, a fool if he didn't realize how dangerously close he was to signing his own death warrant.
"She never came out of the house, sir. I had one man watching the front while I waited at her car."
"But she's not in there now, is she?"
"No, sir."
"Which means she obviously left the house. Did nobody watch the back?"
There was another pause, this one filled with muted stuttering. The blundering idiot! They were close, closer than they'd been in six months, when the woman and the girl had vanished entirely as if they had never existed. To be this close and fail—
No. Grady Byrne did not fail. The word wasn't part of his vocabulary. He would have never climbed his way out of the slums if he accepted failure. Would have never created an empire worth millions if he allowed failure.
Failure had no place in his carefully constructed world.
"N-no, sir. We thought, once she saw her father, that she'd run out the front. Call for help."
"She obviously didn't, now did she?" No, of course not. A woman who could evade him for three years, a woman who could disappear without the slightest trace for six months, wouldn't do anything quite so expected. His men had underestimated her—again.
Grady moved around the antique desk and lowered himself to the expensive chair. He didn't bother looking out the window—the bustling landscape of the old city beyond provided no solace. He hated this place. Hated that he'd been forced to move here to escape the reaches of the US government. They were nothing more fools that thought they could control him and his business ventures.
But there were other fools that needed to be dealt with first.
"Find the woman. I expect to hear news within twenty-four hours."
"Yes, sir. She couldn't have gone far, not on foot. We'll—"
"You imbecile! She won't be on foot."
"But her car—"
"She's not that careless. She'll find some other means of transportation. Just find her. And Michael?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Do not fail again." Grady slammed the phone into the receiver, enjoying the brief flare of satisfaction the action gave him. The satisfaction was short-lived, quickly replaced by anger and impatience.
It was impossible to believe that a woman with such limited means and no connections could evade him for so long. Three years ago, he hadn't even cared about the woman—all he had cared about was the girl. His granddaughter. The child didn't even carry his name—or her father's name. That mistake would be rectified immediately—as soon as they found the woman. As soon as he had the girl.
If a man in Grady's position had any regrets, it would be that his own son, his own flesh-and-blood, had never known him. Blaine had been a bastard, raised by the woman who had caught Grady's eye for a very br
ief time. If he had known, if he'd had any inkling whatsoever, that she had been pregnant with a boy—his son—he would have taken the child away from her and raised him under his own tutelage.
But Grady hadn't known, hadn't learned about Blaine until it was too late. Until his son's life had been cut short by a drunk driver. The driver had paid for the mistake with his own life and Grady had attended his only offspring's funeral filled with regret over a missed opportunity.
Until he had seen the woman. The girl.
His son's daughter.
The girl would take his son's place. She would be raised with only the best, tutored and groomed to take over the empire Grady had fought so hard to build. Her presence would soothe the ruffled feathers of some of the men under him. He wasn't a fool, he'd heard the grumblings. The insinuations that he was getting old. The concern that there was no blood to take over his empire when he was gone. The arguments over who might possibly take his place.
The girl would solve all of that. She would be his legacy.
She was his legacy.
He reached into the center drawer and removed the worn photo, the edges curled and creased. It showed a two-year-old girl with auburn curls and wide green eyes—her father's eyes. His eyes. Perfect bow-shaped lips were parted in a smile, revealing straight white teeth. A stuffed bear was clutched in one chubby hand raised toward the camera.
The picture had been taken the day before his son's funeral—a day before Grady himself had approached the woman and made his offer.
To his surprise, she hadn't immediately accepted. He didn't miss the fury clear in her voice, in her eyes—fury that had been quickly masked. She had watched him for a long time before finally telling him she would think about it. Then she turned her back on him and walked away.
If he had known how stubborn she would be, Grady would have snatched the young child then. But he hadn't known, had erred on the side of caution, had convinced himself that her hesitation had been caused by grief. The woman would gladly accept his offer once she had a chance to think about it. How could she not? He had never considered that she would refuse. After all, everyone had a price.
And yes, he could admit—at least to himself—that part of him had been impressed by the woman's stubbornness. By her refusal to give up her child so easily. His granddaughter would have inherited some of that stubbornness and loyalty, which would serve the child well when she was being groomed.
But his admiration quickly evaporated when he learned the next day that the woman had taken off. Disappeared with no trace.
And all this time, she had somehow managed to stay two steps ahead of his men. Two steps ahead of him.
The woman would pay.
Soon.
Very soon.
Chapter Five
Exhaustion washed over him. Washed? Hell, it was a fucking tsunami, battering his entire body. The only thing keeping him moving forward was more than a decade of training and pure, stubborn habit. That—and the promise of a shower. A cold beer. Eighteen hours of uninterrupted sleep.
Not necessarily in that order.
Daryl ignored the bantering of the two men behind him. Chaos and Boomer were bitching about something but he had no idea what—and he didn't give a shit, either. The past week had been a total fucking blur as they moved around the country, chasing down the tiniest clues and leads before crossing into Mexico and intercepting an arms shipment before it landed in the hands of a drug lord. The job had been a last-minute favor for a friend high up in the chain of command of a no-name agency that didn't exist...on paper. It was easier—not to mention less sticky—for Daryl to take a couple of men and handle it. No muss, no fuss—and no chance of shit going publicly sideways if they screwed up. Not that they would but if something happened, nobody would be pointing fingers at any government official.
Bureaucracy at its finest. But what the hell—the pay more than made up for the bullshit.
He keyed his code into the rear door of the renovated warehouse that served as headquarters for Cover Six Security. There was a small beep, followed by the faintest click as the lock released. He opened the door, adjusted the heavy pack on his shoulder, then grabbed the even heavier duffel and walked inside. Fifteen more minutes and he'd be heading home to that shower and beer.
And his empty bed.
His booted steps echoed off the concrete floor of the cavernous back room they used for storage and training. He passed the duffel to Chaos. The other man raised one brow but didn't say anything as he took it. That was one of the advantages of being in charge: delegating.
Not that he did it often. He was too much of a fucking control freak—in everything. Tough shit. It worked for him, had worked for the last nine years, before then even. He never lost control...
Except for that one night, three months ago—
Fuck it. He pushed the thought to the back of his mind and locked it down. That night had been nothing more than a one-night stand, he'd known that going in. Hell, he hadn't wanted anything other than a one-night stand. Yeah, sure. That's why that hunk of obsidian still hung around his neck, tucked into his shirt where nobody could see it. Where nobody could question it.
"I'm going up front, get an update from TR." He tossed the words over his shoulder, received a nod of acknowledgment from both men. They had stopped their bickering, thank Christ, and were focused on cleaning up the gear.
Thirteen more minutes and he could head home.
That thought followed him as he made his way through the large room, pausing to enter his code into another reinforced door. The front of the warehouse was completely different than the rear, remodeled to hold small offices, a conference room, and the front reception area—all accessed through a crazy maze of hallways. He moved through that maze now, his mind on autopilot as he pushed through the last door and stepped into the reception area.
TR Meyers—no, not Meyers, she was MacGregor now and why the fuck was he still having trouble remembering that?—looked over at him then frowned. He didn't miss the way her nose wrinkled in distaste or the way she actually slid her chair back the tiniest bit when he approached. And shit. He didn't smell that bad, did he?
Yeah, maybe he did because she reached up with one hand and pinched her nose closed. Held her other hand out to stop him. "Don't come any closer. Seriously. You reek."
Daryl frowned, tilted his head and sniffed. "It's not that bad."
"That's because you've fried your nasal passages."
He started to argue, snapped his mouth shut when he realized she might have a point. They'd been out in the field for more than a week then spent the last thirty-six hours on the road pretty much non-stop. He hadn't showered. Hadn't even managed to sleep more than an hour or two here and there. But hell, she should be used to it by now. She'd been filling in as a temporary receptionist for damn near the last eight months, running the front office with a skill that bordered on scary-as-fuck.
She picked up a small stack of messages. "These are for you, most important on top. Not important enough that you need to call anyone back before you take a shower, though."
Daryl took the message slips, quickly scanned them before tucking them into his front pocket. "Did Mac make it back yet?"
He didn't miss the hint of a smile playing around TR's lips when she nodded. "He got back yesterday. He's in his office working on reports."
"And everyone else?"
"All present and accounted for."
Meaning the handful of jobs that had been divided among the team had been successfully completed. The guys would either be home resting or doing personal shit, getting in time at the range, or working at the training field.
"And this came for you last week." TR held out a small package, one of those generic bubble mailers that was slightly larger than an envelope. Daryl took it, glanced at the front then frowned.
No return address but the postmark was from Springfield. Who the fuck did he know in Springfield, Illinois? Nobody came to mind but there was som
ething vaguely familiar about the bold handwriting. He studied it for a few seconds, trying to place it, then gave up. "Anything else?"
"Nope, that's it."
He nodded, thought about shoving everything into his bag and simply heading home, changed his mind at the last minute. There was no sense going home then coming back later, not when he could take care of the messages now. It would only add ten minutes—fifteen, tops. He could deal with that.
He headed toward his office, frowning again at the small package, that hint of familiarity niggling at him. Curiosity washed away some of his exhaustion—a sure sign that he was more tired than he thought because any other time, he'd just toss the small package on his desk. Come back to it later, then approach it with an overabundance of caution instead of eyeing it with curiosity.
He dropped his gear bag to the floor then slid the chair out with the toe of one booted foot before dropping into it. He pulled the message slips from his pocket, went through them one-by-one before placing them near his keyboard. Not a single one of them needed an immediate response.
The package, however, was a different story.
Daryl eyed it for a few minutes, still studying that handwriting, still wondering why it looked vaguely familiar. He pulled the small pocketknife from his side pocket and eased it under the sealed flap, carefully slicing it open. He upended the envelope then stared at the contents for a long minute.
A small sheet of paper, folded precisely in half.
A thumb drive.
A house key.
What the hell.
He grabbed the note and unfolded it, stared down at the bold writing and the signature scrawled at the bottom. Confusion was slowly replaced by...not excitement, not in the traditional meaning, anyway. His pulse sped up for a brief second, adrenaline and awareness replacing the weariness that had been clinging to him for the last few hours.
Not just awareness, but wariness as well.
The Guardian: DARYL (Cover Six Security, #2) Page 5