Unexpected Protector

by Justine Davis

  “Hayley?”

  She snapped out of her reverie with a start as Liam said her name. She realized he’d been standing there for a moment, and was now looking at her curiously. No wonder, she’d been so lost in her own thoughts she hadn’t even been aware he was there. At least not consciously; subconsciously she must have been, because she suddenly realized what he’d initially said to her.

  “Outside?”

  “Quinn thought you might be getting a little stir-crazy. So if you want to go for a walk, now’s the time.”

  “This is Quinn’s idea?”

  She didn’t know which astonished her more, that he’d agreed to this, or that he’d had the idea in the first place.

  Liam chuckled. “I know he comes off as scary, but really, he’s a good guy.”

  Hayley wanted to believe that. For her own sake. “Then why won’t he talk to me?”

  Liam’s expression changed, his voice taking on a tone of almost-amazed amusement. “Now that’s interesting. Teague thinks he’s annoyed you’re even here. Rafer thinks it’s because you get to him, and he doesn’t like that.”

  That answer set up an immediate battle in Hayley’s mind. No matter how much her common sense, her logic, her sense of self-preservation told her the next question should be either “Why am I here?” or “Where is here?”, the question she most wanted to ask was “What do you mean I get to him?”

  Don’t be an idiot female, she ordered herself.

  “Which do you believe?”

  “I have to choose?” Liam said, with an exaggerated look of dismay that would have amused her under any other circumstances.

  “I’m not here by choice,” she reminded him, rather sharply.

  “I know. And I’m sorry about that. We all are. We know how scary it must be.”

  She thought of the team, of the four tough-looking, well-trained men. “Somehow I doubt that.”

  “No, really.”

  “Right. You know darn well any one of you would probably have escaped by now.”

  “Look, Hayley, we’re not—” He stopped, clearly frustrated.

  “The bad guys? So I’ve been told. Then why can’t I get some simple answers?”

  “Orders.”

  “Quinn’s orders?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Quinn’s orders are sacrosanct, is that it?”

  “Pretty much, yeah.”

  Liam didn’t look the least bit discomfited at admitting it. Was his admiration that complete, that he wouldn’t—or couldn’t—ever question? Blind obedience?

  “To just you, or—”

  “To all of us. To anybody who works with him.”

  Which implied, she thought, that there were more than just these three men in that category. How many were there? And where were they?

  “Why?” she asked bluntly.

  Liam looked at her steadily for a long moment. It was hard to believe there was any ill intent behind those innocent-looking, soft brown eyes.

  “Because he’s the boss. He built this operation. Because he pays my salary, a good one. Because he gave me a chance at something better. But most of all, because he’s earned it.”

  “You talk about him like he’s some kind of—”

  “Don’t let her get to you, Liam.”

  Quinn’s voice came from behind them; he’d come in so quietly neither of them had heard him. At least she hadn’t. She wasn’t sure Liam hadn’t known it, and hence the high praise, intended to be overheard.

  “Get back out there. Rafer saw a dust cloud in an odd place a minute ago. Nothing since, but I want the extra eyes out.”

  Liam nodded, but flicked a glance at her.

  “I’ll deal with this,” Quinn said, and the younger man turned on his heel and exited like someone escaping a coming storm.

  This? The word and his tone had hit a nerve already raw, depersonalizing her, sounded as if she were merely some bug to be swatted or, worse, dishes to be done.

  “No, thanks,” she said, rather fiercely. “I’d rather stay inside than go for a walk with you.”

  “You’re not going for any walk. You wasted your time asking questions you knew weren’t going to get answered.”

  She hadn’t realized how much she’d wanted to go out until he’d yanked the opportunity out from under her. “What?” she yelped. “It was only what, five minutes?”

  “Better than nothing, which is what you have now.”

  “Don’t treat me like some kid you have to teach a lesson to.”

  “Just a law of nature. Despite those who would like to deny it, actions have consequences.”

  “And reactions,” Hayley muttered, wishing she was the sort of woman to deliver a roundhouse slap to that hard-jawed face of his. But somehow she doubted that, even if she got her full strength behind it, it would have much effect.

  “Equal and opposite?” he said, with that vague amusement that irked her.

  “Opposite, anyway.” She met his gaze, figuring she had nothing to lose. “What is it you’re afraid will happen if you tell me the truth? It’s not like I can run next door and tell someone.”

  “Not unless you’re up to running sixty or so miles in this heat.”

  “Then what’s the point of keeping me in the dark, if you’re really not the bad guys?”

  “It’s for your own good.”

  Being treated like a child was one thing, being talked to like one on top of it was the last tug on Hayley’s already stress-aggravated temper.

  “And just what the hell makes you think you have any right to decide what’s good for me?”

  “I ended up with that right when you poked your nose where it didn’t belong.”

  “I didn’t poke my nose anywhere, my dog did! And you sure don’t seem averse to letting him play your little game.”

  Quinn went very still. “This is no game,” he said, his voice flat, and more grim than any she’d ever heard except for the doctor who’d told her her mother was dying.

  “Isn’t it? Isn’t it all, with your helicopter and your guns, a big, deadly game?”

  “Nothing involving guns is a game,” Quinn said. “At least it shouldn’t be.”

  The unexpected and uncharacteristic bitterness of his last words surprised her. She wondered what he was thinking of, what had brought on the comment.

  “Do you shoot?” he asked.

  “I’ve shot skeet, a few times.” Her mouth twisted. “Not handguns. My mom hated them.”

  “Hating guns isn’t going to help you out here.”

  “I don’t hate guns, they’re only tools. My dad was a cop. They can save lives, fight evil. And take lives and perpetrate evil. So I just hate them in the wrong hands.”

  “Well, well. Something we can agree on.” When she didn’t speak his mouth quirked. “Obviously you don’t think we’re the right hands.”

  “How could I know?” she asked, not bothering to hide her sarcasm. “It’s not like your name’s all over that fancy helicopter.”

  “I object to that description,” he said. “It’s powerful, efficient, sleek and altogether cool, but fancy it’s not.”

  Altogether cool...?

  For a moment she just stared at him. He’d sounded like a boy with a new, heart’s-desire toy. And for an instant, he looked like one, too.

  “Whose is it?”

  “Mine,” he said with a satisfaction that matched that look.

  “Yours? Not your boss’s?”

  “I don’t have a boss. Well, except Charlie.” His mouth quirked again, wryly this time. “We all answer to Charlie.”

  Instinctively, she nearly smiled at his tone. She caught herself in surprise. But she couldn’t deny that at some time during this conversation that had started out so heated, something had changed. There was something so nor
mal about his voice, his expression, now. Not a softening, she doubted if this man could ever be called anything remotely resembling soft. But a change nevertheless, a change that made him...less intimidating, less menacing somehow.

  She was about to ask who Charlie was when he asked a question of his own.

  “Your dad was a cop?”

  She hesitated, wondering if she should have let that slip out. If she’d been thinking instead of angry, she might have considered if it was wise to let them know that before she came out with it. With any of the other guys, she probably would have; if they weren’t good guys, then knowing she was in any way connected to a cop might tip them over into doing something about her.

  But thinking seemed to fall by the wayside with this man. Besides, it wasn’t as if she could unsay it.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Was, as in is no longer?”

  “Was, as in killed in the line of duty when I was sixteen.”

  Something changed yet again in his face. The hard-edged planes, the strong jaw didn’t shift, but his eyes widened just slightly, and his lips parted as if for breath, or words.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  The words were simple, timeworn, and oft-heard, but never, she thought, had they sounded more sincere.

  “Me, too,” she said. “It’s rough. Losing a parent so young.”

  She remembered again what he’d said, about being the one abandoned when he was ten. And she would swear there was a sad knowledge in his eyes, beyond the words that she’d heard so often they’d descended into platitude. Why could she suddenly read him so easily, when usually she found it impossible to even begin to guess what he was thinking? Was it because he was letting her see past the mask?

  Or was this a new mask, donned to gain her confidence, her trust, and through that, her cooperation?

  She didn’t believe it. The remembered pain in his eyes was too clear, too real, too overwhelming. If that was faked, then she might as well give up and let them kill her, because she was too stupid to live.

  “Quinn,” she began, then stopped, in part because she’d never said it before and it felt strange, in part because she wasn’t sure what she wanted to say anyway, and in part because of the way he went still when she said it.

  She wondered if he would say her name back, but he didn’t. He just looked at her. And it was with some certainty that she asked, “Who was it for you? Mom? Dad?”

  “Both,” he said, his voice so inflectionless she knew it was intentional, and she wondered what the neutrality cost him. When she’d thought about some childhood betrayal, she’d never thought of this.

  Both his parents. At ten. That was more horrible than she could imagine. Losing her dad had been bad enough, but to lose both of them, at an even younger age—

  Cutter’s trumpeting bark from outside cut off her grim imaginings. Quinn’s head snapped around.

  “That’s a warning bark,” Hayley said, then felt silly for explaining the obvious.

  Quinn was already crossing swiftly to the window. Hayley got there just in time to see Cutter streaking out of sight past the barn, head down, tail out straight; whoever it was was going to get a doggie greeting the polar opposite of what Quinn had gotten.

  Quinn yanked the handheld radio from where it was clipped on his belt, forgoing the usual earwig since he was inside. “Report!”

  “I heard, but the southeast perimeter’s clear,” Teague’s voice came back.

  “Half way around southwest, ditto so far.” That was Liam, she recognized the trace of the drawl even over the radio.

  “Rafer? I think the dog was headed your way.”

  “Hang on, heading for higher ground.”

  Quinn said nothing, but he didn’t simply wait. He crossed to the gun rack on the far wall, unlocked it and took out a weapon that looked aggressive and menacing by its very design; unrelieved black like the helicopter, with an odd shape and all kinds of scopelike gear attached.

  “Dog’s cued on something to the northeast, I’m almost to where—”

  Rafer’s voice broke off, nearly stopping Hayley’s heart. She’d come to like the guy, she realized.

  “I’ve got incoming hostiles,” Rafer’s voice came over the small radio, so quietly that it made his words even more unsettling. “At least six on my front. Mile, mile and a half out. On foot, well armed.”

  For an instant Hayley just stood there, stunned. All of a sudden this was no longer an irritating and frightening puzzle. This was a war. A very small but very real war.

  And they were under attack.

  Chapter 20

  Quinn snapped orders, not because his men didn’t already know what to do, but to remind everybody where the friendlies would be. Each man had long ago scouted his sector and chosen his high ground; Teague in the dilapidated-looking windmill, Liam in the hayloft of the barn, with its panoramic view, and Rafer, as usual, in the farthest, most dangerous, most exposed spot, the single place that could really be called a hill in this mostly flat place, and the first line of defense. That the man was a sniper of the highest class made that line of defense more than formidable.

  “I’ve got ’em. Still nearly a mile out,” Teague said over the radio, and Quinn acknowledged, knowing from the background sounds that the man was getting into position already.

  “Four more. Same distance.”

  Rafer’s voice was, as always in these situations, deadly calm.

  So ten men at least. “Any chance they’re IBs, local hunters or hikers?”

  Rafer didn’t laugh at the idea they were innocent bystanders, but his answer was so swift he might as well have.

  “Not unless they do a lot of hunting around here with high explosives. One guy’s draped like a suicide bomber.”

  Quinn’s jaw tightened at the familiar phrase. He calculated quickly. Each observation location had been fitted with a cache of handy weapons, including some explosives of their own. Not just out of expectation they’d have to use them, but because preparation was the best way to ensure they wouldn’t.

  Was there enough? He smiled inwardly; of course there was. Charlie would have seen to it. There’d be enough ordinance here to fend off a small army. Maybe even a big one.

  Teague’s voice crackled. “You want the chopper?”

  “Not yet,” Quinn said. “Until we see how they’re armed. Don’t want fly into an RPG or a Stinger or something.”

  The last time they’d run into a group like this, rocket-propelled grenades had not only been on the menu, but the surface-to-air missiles, as well. He had to keep the aircraft in reserve in case they had to fly Vicente out of here. Once he was safe, and only if all else failed, would the helicopter be outfitted with its nice little .50 caliber and used as a weapon. All they had to do was get it armed and airborne, and any remaining opposition could be cut to shreds.

  But it was their job now to make sure it didn’t come to that. And their job alone; if the operation had been compromised, which seemed likely given how fast they’d been found again, they couldn’t risk breaking silence to call in more backup. He’d been right to stay dark, but it gave him no satisfaction. What it gave him was another job to do; find the mole, as soon as this was over.

  He was making his own preparations, slipping on a vest and filling the many pockets with various things. To he himself fell the task of being the last line of defense. He’d rather be out there, stopping this before it got started, but Vicente was still their top priority, and it had to stay that way.

  Even if a smart-mouthed, quick-witted woman had complicated matters immeasurably.

  “Who are they?” Hayley asked as he went back to the gun case and began to select other weapons, a luxury he might not have had if not for Cutter’s early warning.

  “That dog of yours,” he said, “is a help. Nice to have warning.”

  �
��Yes. Who are they?”

  “You said you went trap shooting. You any good?”

  “Better than fair, not expert.”

  “That’ll do,” Quinn said, turning back to the rack of long guns, selecting one, a Mossberg 500. “It has the extended magazine, seven plus one.” He handed it to her, with a box of shells. “Load it, and you can have it.”

  She took it without hesitation. He had to hope she’d shoot the same way if it came to that. She fed the shells in with only a slight clumsiness, as if she knew perfectly well what to do, but hadn’t done it in a while. After a moment of assuring himself she really did know what she was doing, he went back to his own task.

  He picked up two of the small grenades and slipped them into the vest’s large left pocket. And after a moment’s hesitation, he picked up what looked like an industrial-strength stun gun. He turned to face her.

  “You ever use one of these?”

  She barely glanced at the electronic weapon before shaking her head.

  “It’s fairly basic,” he said. “Make contact, push button.”

  She made no comment on the instruction. “Who are they?” she asked for a fourth time. And for a fourth time he ignored the question.

  “The shotgun’s a good weapon, but keep this handy just in case. If they get this far, my job is to protect Vicente. You’ll be on your own.”

  If this announcement of her lack of importance in the overall scheme of things shocked or bothered her, it didn’t show. He had to give her credit, she didn’t rattle easy.

  “Who are they?”

  “They,” he finally said, with no small amount of exasperation at her stubbornness, “are the bad guys you’ve been worried about.”

  All the while he was thinking. Two groups, one small, one larger. Where would the leader be? These were civilians, not military, so ordinary command structure didn’t apply. It would depend on his orders and his ego, Quinn thought. If he was the type who needed that ego fed, he might be with the larger group, needing the feel of being in charge of more people.

  If it were him, he’d be with the smaller, more maneuverable group. And that group would be made up of the best they had, be it shooters or bombers or hand-to-hand experts. The big group would, by its size, draw the most attention, allowing the smaller group to get closer.