The Guardian: DARYL (Cover Six Security, #2)

by Lisa B. Kamps

  He absently turned on the computer, his eyes rereading the few short lines over and over as he waited for the machine to boot.

  I'm calling in the favor you owe me.

  ~Allen Davis

  Below that was an address in St. Louis, Missouri.

  Allen Davis. His old CO. The man who had saved his ass in more ways than one. He hadn't spoken to the man in years. Hadn't thought of him in almost as long—

  No, that wasn't right. Hadn't he just recently thought of him, three months ago when they were in the islands for Mac's wedding? Yeah, he had. The day he'd met—

  He pushed the memory away and grabbed the thumb drive, held it in his hand for a few seconds. Waiting. Ignoring the frisson of unease skittering along his spine. The reaction was only because he was tired. There was no reason—real or imagined—for him to be uneasy. Davis was calling in a favor. So what? The favor was long overdue as far as Daryl was concerned. Hell, for all he knew, the cranky s.o.b was going to order him out to wherever the hell he was living now—must be that address in St. Louis—to paint his house or some shit like that.

  His mouth twitched in a quick grin. Yeah, that would be something his old CO would do. And Daryl would go, take a few of the other guys with him. They'd paint the fucking house, inside and out. Do whatever else the cranky s.o.b. ordered them to do while they were there. Because yeah, the man had saved Daryl's ass in more ways than one.

  Daryl owed him.

  He slid the thumb drive into the port then sat back, waiting for the computer to automatically launch whatever the hell was on the drive. A picture of a worn chair filled the screen. Shelves covered the wall behind the chair, filled with mementos of military life. Pictures and awards. A shadow box filled with ribbons. A small hook holding his dog tags. Another hook holding a pair of jump wings.

  Daryl leaned closer, wondering why the hell Davis had sent him a picture of an empty chair. Then he heard a muffled cough. The slide of a shoe against a hardwood floor.

  Not a picture—a video.

  A few seconds later, the thin figure of an older man filled the screen. Just his back at first as he moved toward the chair, muttering under his breath. The man turned toward the camera and Daryl sat back, struggled to catch the breath that had been knocked from his lungs when recognition hit.

  This wasn't just some unknown older man—it was Allen Davis. Thinner. Paler. Gaunt. His full head of hair had thinned, become more gray than dark brown. The man facing the camera looked to be in his seventies, not—Daryl frowned, did the math in his head. Davis was twenty years older than he was, which would make him fifty-three.

  What the hell had happened to him?

  What the hell was going on?

  The man looking out at him from the computer monitor raised one long finger and pointed it at the camera. "This damn thing better work this time. I'm running out of fucking patience with this shit."

  A ghost of a smile played around Daryl's mouth. The voice was as strong and gruff as he remembered. Blunt. Unforgiving.

  Daryl blinked and the years melted away, morphing the image of the older man in front of the camera into the man Daryl remembered. Strong. Dedicated. Loyal. Hard-as-nails and tough-as-shit. Unstoppable.

  The man cleared his throat, leaned back in the chair and stared into the camera. He narrowed his eyes and pressed his lips together, his mouth forming a thin line of impatience. Christ, Daryl remembered that look, had seen it plenty of times before—usually seconds before Davis exploded.

  But there was no explosion. Not this time. Instead, the older man blew out a heavy sigh, the sound weary. Defeated. His gaze never wavered from the camera, held Daryl's own attention as if he was there in person, sitting on the other side of his desk.

  "I hadn't planned on doing this, son. Believe me, if I had any other alternative, I wouldn't. But time is running out and I need your help."

  Daryl leaned forward, nudged the volume up. That frisson of unease grew, pebbled the flesh on his arms and the back of his neck.

  "I need your help." The man repeated the words, slowly shook his head and uttered a harsh laugh. "Those words don't come easy for me. Or for you. Hell, for any of us. But there it is: I need your help."

  Another pause as Davis glanced down at his hands. He turned back to the camera, anger flashing in his eyes. "I'm dying. I'm not telling you that for your pity so just knock that shit off now. I'm telling you that so you understand why I need your help. So you understand how important this is. I've been keeping tabs on you, Anderson. And I'm damn proud of you. Of everything you've accomplished. Call me arrogant but I like to think I had a hand in getting you where you are today."

  Davis leaned to the side, coughed, swore beneath his breath. "Damn cancer. Yeah, you heard me. Cancer. Stupid fucking disease. Eats away at you, chipping away at everything you've got. Day-by-day until you look in the fucking mirror and see a stranger staring back at you. And now my time is running out. Doctors say I might have six months. Maybe a little more, maybe a little less. And that's why I need your help: my time is running out."

  Davis leaned forward, fiery stubbornness lighting his eyes. The force of his gaze held Daryl's. Commanding. Ordering. Demanding. Just like he had nearly a decade ago. "I'm calling in that favor you owe me. Never thought in a million years that I'd ever do such a damn thing but here I am, doing it anyway. I need your help, son. I can't go into details here—too damn risky. I'll explain when I see you in person. Yeah, I'm asking you to drop everything and get your sorry ass out here. Now."

  He coughed again, the sound wet and thick, the force of it bending him over. He straightened, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, pursed his mouth in distaste. Then he stared into the camera once more, not bothering to hide the fear and worry shadowing his eyes. "My daughter's in trouble, son. And you're the only one I trust to keep her safe."

  Chapter Six

  A chilled breeze rustled the branches, pulling the last remaining leaves from the trees. They skittered along the sidewalk, collected on the small front porch and tangled in the edges of what remained of the yellow crime scene tape.

  Daryl stared at the house, dread filling the hollow pit of his stomach.

  Too late.

  He was too late.

  Anger ripped through him, mingled with the sorrow taking root in his heart. There was something else there, too. Something more than anger, more than sorrow—

  Regret.

  Failure.

  His CO, his mentor—his friend—had called on him for help and Daryl had failed.

  He'd left as soon as he could, within an hour of watching the video. Chaos had arranged the private charter flight while Boomer broke every posted speed limit getting him to the small airport forty-five minutes from the office. The small jet had been waiting for him, had taken off as soon as Daryl had climbed aboard and shoved his pack under the seat. He'd ignored the sense of urgency pushing him, told himself he was overreacting. That Davis himself had been overreacting. That the situation wasn't as dire as the older man had made it out to be.

  He'd actually fucking convinced himself during the nearly-three-hour flight that everything was fine. Whatever trouble Davis's daughter was in couldn't be as serious as he was making it out to be. He'd get to his CO's house and they'd have a beer, sit down and figure out what the hell was going on. Solve it by putting their heads together then kick back and talk about old times.

  Only Daryl had been wrong. There'd be no sitting down. No figuring things out. No reminiscing over a beer.

  He was too late.

  He had failed.

  What the fuck had happened?

  Daryl glanced around the tidy neighborhood, wondering what the fuck to do next. He needed answers. Now. Standing out here on the fucking sidewalk as darkness descended around him would get him nowhere. But where the fuck did he go? He needed to find out what happened and when.

  He had the key Davis had sent him. Did it go to this house? Probably. Even if it didn't, Daryl would have no tro
uble getting inside. But did he really want to draw attention to himself by going in through the front door? The sidewalk and street were empty but he knew people had seen him, had noticed the curtains of the house two doors down flipping back as whoever was inside looked out.

  No, he wouldn't go in the front door. Too obvious. He'd go back to the rental car, pretend to drive off and circle the block, find someplace to park then come back on foot. The small alley would provide plenty of cover as he made his way around the back.

  He turned, started back toward his car when he heard the sound of a door opening. It came from the house two doors down, the same house where he'd noticed the curtains moving. Daryl kept walking, watching the woman standing on the small porch from the corner of his eye. She was in her late forties, maybe early fifties. Short dark hair, generous build. Skin-hugging denim clung to her curves. Her hands twisted in the edges of a bulky zippered sweatshirt, holding it tight against the evening chill.

  He had just reached the rental car when she moved forward, the first few steps hesitant. Daryl didn't say anything, pretended he hadn't even noticed her. Her steps quickened when his hand closed over the door handle and she called out to him, her voice cautious, maybe a little hopeful.

  "Excuse me." She reached the end of her walkway, keeping a safe distance between them. "Are you looking for Allen Davis?"

  Should he tell her yes? Or would it be better to deny it? To throw off suspicion for when he returned later and entered the house on his own? He almost settled on the latter then changed his mind at the last second. There was something about the way the woman was watching him, with an air of expectancy and even hope.

  "Yes, ma'am. I was." He glanced up the street, looked back at the woman. "Do you know what happened?"

  A visible chill shook her and she tightened her grip around the edges of the thick jacket. "Someone broke into the house and...and he was murdered."

  Murdered.

  Anger washed over him once more, replaced by sorrow and regret. He turned his gaze back to the vacant house, to the loose section of frayed yellow tape that fluttered in the cold breeze.

  Too late.

  He'd been too fucking late.

  He swallowed against the emotion in his throat and made a mental note to have Chaos pull up everything he could find. Then he turned back to the woman. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

  The woman nodded and Daryl thought she may have blinked back tears but he couldn't be sure. "He was a friend of yours?"

  A friend? Yes. No. Allen Davis had been much more than a friend, in ways he couldn't begin to define. "Yes, he was. It's been a few years since I've seen him. I was coming out to visit but—"

  But he'd been too late. Too damn late.

  Light from the corner street lamp reflected from the line of earrings in the woman's right ear when she tilted her head to the side. She watched him for a long minute, studying him.

  No, not studying—measuring. Sizing him up. She finally nodded, almost to herself, then tossed a quick glance around them. She stepped closer and lowered her voice, emotion flaring in her dark eyes. "He was expecting someone. What's your name?"

  He hesitated, weighing the pros and cons of telling her. None of the cons mattered if this woman would be able to help. If she had information about Davis. Hell, maybe she had information from Davis.

  "Daryl."

  "And your last name?"

  Again, just a split-second hesitation before he answered. "Anderson."

  Recognition flared in her eyes, quickly concealed by a careful blink. So Davis had mentioned him to her. But why? What did she know? He started to ask but she interrupted, asking another question that completely surprised him.

  "Would there happen to be another name you go by?"

  What the fuck? The woman was being cautious—not necessarily a bad thing. But what the fuck did she know? What had Davis told her? Maybe nothing. Maybe this was just an overabundance of caution.

  No, it was more than that. The simple fact that she had asked for another name told him that much. A first and last name would be more than enough for most people—unless they'd been told to ask for more. Davis knew his code name. Hell, the man had been the one to give it to him—and it had nothing to do with a god-complex the way TR had joked all those months ago.

  The woman kept watching him. Waiting. There was no doubt in Daryl's mind that she knew the answer, no doubt in his mind that Davis had been the one to tell her. But why?

  He met the woman's direct gaze with one of his own. "There is but before I answer, I have a question for you."

  She hesitated, her thin brows pulling low over her eyes for a fraction of a second. "Fair enough. What?"

  "Who are you?"

  "My name is Theresa. Theresa Martin."

  "And how did you know Davis?"

  Sadness shadowed her eyes but only for a brief second. She blinked, looked away, looked back. "We are—were...friends."

  He didn't miss the sorrow in her voice, or the sheen of moisture quickly blinked away. More than friends, then. And Davis had obviously trusted the woman. That was good enough for him—for now.

  He extended his hand. "Some people call me Zeus."

  She sagged in relief, caught herself and reached out to accept his hand. Her grip was stronger than he expected, her fingers trembling just the slightest bit against his. "He said you'd come. I didn't think—I thought it was too late."

  "Ma'am?"

  She released his hand, glanced around then stepped back and motioned toward her house. "We should go inside and talk. It would be less obvious. And I have something to give you."

  Curiosity overrode caution as he followed Theresa into the house. The inside was neat, tidy despite the overstuffed furniture and collection of knick-knacks that lined several shelves on the near wall. A stack of books rested on the floor in front of an end table. A basket of colorful yarn and several long needles sat on the coffee table. The beginnings of what might be a hat or hell, maybe even a sweater for all he knew, rested next to the basket, obviously forgotten. Had she placed the knitting work aside to watch him? Possibly. Or maybe someone else lived here with her and the knitting belonged to them because Theresa didn't look like the knitting type.

  He took a few minutes to study her more closely as she closed the door and shrugged out of the thick sweat jacket. In addition to the piercings lining her ear, she had a small one by the corner of her nose. A discreet jewel, maybe a diamond or a crystal of some kind. Small enough not to be noticeable at first.

  Her long-sleeve t-shirt was emblazoned with the logo of a popular motorcycle company. She pushed the sleeves up, revealing an intricate tattoo of fairies and ivy on the inside of her right arm.

  A hundred different questions rolled through his mind—and the first dozen centered around his surprise that Davis and this woman had been friends. More than friends. How had his tough-as-nails, spit-and-polish former CO become involved with the woman in front of him? A woman who, by all appearances, was the man's complete opposite?

  Then again, maybe that was reason enough. And who the hell was he to judge in any case?

  Theresa turned toward him. Shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Ran her hands along the legs of her dark jeans. "Would you like something to drink? Ice tea? Coffee? Water?"

  "No, thank you, ma'am."

  A hint of a smile curled her lips, quickly faded. She ran her hands along her jeans once more then pointed to the sofa. "Have a seat. I'll go get the letter."

  She moved the room, leaving him alone. Instead of sitting, Daryl took the time to study the framed photographs resting on the shelves and hanging on the walls. They were all candid shots, featuring the woman and several different friends—including Davis. One in particular caught his attention. Davis had his arm around Theresa's shoulders, bright smiles on both their faces. Two motorcycles—a Kawasaki and a Harley Davidson—sat off to their right, nearly lost in the dramatic background of the Grand Canyon.

  Footsteps paused b
ehind him, then resumed a little more slowly. Theresa stopped next to him, a nostalgic smile on her face. She reached out, traced the couple in the framed photograph with the tip of one brightly-painted nail.

  "That was taken last Spring. Before..." Her voice trailed off and the smile faded from her mouth. She sighed, straightened her shoulders, then held out a thin envelope. Daryl's name was scrawled across the front in his former CO's bold writing. "He left this for you. In case..." She stopped, cleared her throat. "I guess he was worried something might happen. I didn't believe him. Thought he was just worrying too much. I...I was wrong."

  Daryl accepted the envelope, stared down at it for a few seconds then looked back at Theresa. "What did happen?"

  She shrugged, moved toward the sofa and sat down with a sigh filled with weariness. Sorrow. Disbelief. "He was shot."

  Daryl kept his face carefully blank but inside, he was reeling. Davis had been shot? When? By who? And why? Was this connected to his daughter somehow? What the fuck was the girl involved in and how the fuck had her father been dragged into it? He curled his hand into a fist, slowly released it. "When?"

  Theresa pulled her lower lip between her teeth then sighed again before sagging against the back of the sofa. "Eleven days ago. I—we were supposed to have breakfast but he didn't show up so I went over, thought maybe he was sick. He—he hasn't been well."

  "He said he had cancer."

  "Yes. I thought—" She shook her head, took a deep breath. "I went over to check on him and...he was in his recliner and I thought he was sleeping but...he wasn't."

  She squeezed her eyes closed then a ran one shaking hand over her face before dropping it in her lap. Daryl reached over, closed his hand over hers and gently squeezed.

  "I'm sorry."

  Theresa nodded then took another deep breath before opening her eyes. A sad smile teased one corner of her mouth. "The police haven't been able to learn anything yet, at least as far as I know."

  "They don't have any leads?"

  Theresa shook her head. "I don't think so. They don't think it was robbery related because the house looks like it always does and no valuables are missing."