The Protector

by Cristin Harber

  “Stop?”

  “Yeah, pull the fuck over.”

  “Hell,” he muttered. “Roger that.” He tore onto the shoulder. Debris and rocked rolled in the wheels and under the truck as he slammed the breaks. “Stopped.”

  “Then get out,” Jared said.

  Chance didn’t have time to question. He tucked his Glock in a holster and grabbed the keys and his phone and squeezed out his door. He wouldn’t have parked so close to the cement barrier wall if he knew he’d have to hoof it. Then he looked up, feeling the stealth helicopter before he heard it as the beast lowered into the closed HOV Express lanes.

  “Holy shit.” He jumped the cement barrier and ducked for his next ride.

  The hatch door opened. Two men greeted him by way of handing him gear and weapons. They had a way about them. Chance could tell they knew his world well. Each seemed to know that this was one of those jobs where names weren’t mentioned because this job never officially existed.

  He grabbed a headset and listened as the pilot called in their liftoff.

  “Midas?” Parker’s voice reverberated.

  Chance took a deep breath, reassured to have someone he knew on standby, even if it was only by radio transmission. “Midas checking in.”

  Parker gave a quick update and run-down. They opted out of an emergency call to the police until they knew the situation. Jared had reached out to Pennebaker, who reached out to Sal. They’d be their eyes on the ground until they touched down again. If they saw anything suspicious from the outside, the men had the wherewithal to pull in the cops. Otherwise, they wouldn’t enter and would wait for Chance to call the shots.

  His instructions were simple: assess for immediate danger and collect intel. Use Sal and Pennebaker as backup. Lean heavy on the man who went by “Winters.” The other man, call sign “Cash,” would “disappear and do his job.” Judging by the sniper rifle at his side, Chance gathered Cash would be their eyes and cover.

  What could’ve been a forty-five minute or longer drive was whittled down to eighteen. The pilot had shaved an additional two minutes when he announced they’d arrived.

  The hatch opened. Cash slipped out like liquid spilling into the night. One second he was there, another second, gone.

  “Midas, Winters,” Parker called. “Don’t wrack up a body count.”

  Winters glanced at Chance. “Formality. Mostly.”

  He snorted. They bumped fists, pulled their night-vision goggles on, and hustled toward the house that Chance couldn’t stand.

  ***

  Except for her legs, Jane was ready to run. She kept up her unconscious performance as wooden hangers were tossed aside and dully clicked together, though she’d been able to covertly take in the room. Gigi’s clothes were in tatters, torn and shredded. Her makeup had been thrown. Strips of a red-carpet dress hung on a lamp, and one of Gigi’s dangerously high Louboutins had been used to murder a keepsake pillow.

  Then the ripping and hanger-tossing stopped. Dax, Gigi, and Lark milled about, inspecting their work. How long had they planned this? How much longer until Jane needed to run? She tried in vain to move her thighs. It was as though her brain couldn’t connect correctly with those limbs. Her toes would wiggle and ankles roll, but that wouldn’t help if she couldn’t get off the bed.

  Jane’s brain wasn’t a hundred percent either. Two of them approached her again, but she couldn’t tell which two. Dax had to be one. He was close enough to block the light on the nightstand.

  “So.” Gigi sat on the edge of the bed. “What’s next?”

  “The pills,” Lark instructed.

  “Yeah. The pills.” Dax knocked one of the bottles over and cursed. “My hands are shaking. I’ve never felt a rush like this.”

  “Think of the one to come,” Gigi cooed.

  “Think of my bonus,” Lark added, just as sing-song as Gigi.

  They laughed. At her. At the situation and how brazen they were. Jane couldn’t understand but also knew they’d get away with it. She had thought them fools, but they’d constructed the perfect crime. The reporter who saw her reaction to the pictures. The cocktail left by the door. Even her fingerprints on the hangers—but, Jane almost gasped. They didn’t know about Chance. He had to know something was wrong by now.

  The lamp jumbled on the nightstand and Dax muttered, pushing it out of the way. The mattress dipped as he sat by her head.

  “Can someone move her over?”

  Gigi and Lark rolled Jane. She tried to act limp, but even if she hadn’t, they were too keyed up to notice.

  Pills rattled from their container. Dax expertly crushed them. Why wouldn’t her legs work?

  “Think that’s enough?” Dax asked.

  Lark leaned over Jane. “Hmm, think so. Maybe do one more. Just to be safe.”

  “I think that’s enough, really,” Gigi countered. “It’d be enough to kill me.”

  They laughed again. She wanted to scream. But instead, she focused on the impossible task of moving her legs.

  “Don’t be greedy,” Dax snickered. “You have more than enough.”

  They laughed again. Jane’s leg jerked out, surprising the hell out of her. But not nearly as much as them. They jumped and screamed. Jane didn’t move. Her face pressed into the mattress and she tried not to move again.

  “What the fuck,” Gigi gasped.

  “I think that happens sometimes,” Dax added.

  “How would you know? Go around knocking out women often?”

  Dax nervously laughed. “Take it easy, Gigi.”

  “Poke her,” Gigi demanded. “With a pen. Or a pin.”

  “No,” Lark cut in. “We cannot leave a mark on her. Not a single bruise. Nothing.”

  Gigi sighed. “I don’t think they’ll even check.”

  God, fuck you, Gigi! Jane’s other leg twitched.

  Well, hell. The jig was up. They’d poke her or she’d keep twitching. Either way, Jane was done laying on her face. She screamed and threw herself off the bed.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  Chance and Winters skirted the grounds, both pulling on their night-vision goggles as they approached the pool. Sal and Pennebaker were on a side portico and Chance directed his new partner toward their backup. He lifted his chin in greeting, taking in their clothes.

  With slicked-back hair and cologne, Sal wore a tightly-fitted shirt and expensive slacks. “What? I was out.”

  “In the club,” Pennebaker nodded, exceedingly more comfortable in his Hawaiian shirt, pool shorts, and flip-flops.

  “Every time I think I’ve seen it all, Boss Man throws me for a loop,” Winters muttered.

  The nightclub getup didn’t change Sal’s rosy demeanor. “Who’s the kid?”

  Winters ignored the jab.

  “Lights are on,” Pennebaker offered instead. “As always. No sign that anyone’s home. The GPS indicator on their Range Rover don’t have them within two hundred miles of here.”

  Chance studied the large home. “Did you go inside?”

  “Hell no,” Sal quipped. “I’d like to keep my job.”

  “We eyeballed Jane’s cottage and swept the perimeter.” Pennebaker gestured. “No one’s home. All’s quiet on the home front—except for the womp, womp of your stealth copter. What’s this all about? Your office wouldn’t say shit.”

  “Jane.” Chance reached for his cell phone and called her again. Dread curled in his stomach.

  A cell phone chimed. The foursome pivoted. The bright light of Jane’s phone glowed from a poolside table. He killed the call and rushed over. She hadn’t seen his calls or messages. Chance turned—and stopped. His eyes locked on Teddy’s scavenger hunt book, haphazardly laid open on a pool lounger. He picked up the phone and book and returned to the men, holding them up like evidence.

  “The boy’s missing too?” Pennebaker’s jaw tightened. “You want to tell us exactly what’s happening?”

  “Teddy is with his aunt.” Chance tucked their phones into his back pocket. “Jan
e’s gone.”

  “Eyes up,” Cash said in their earpieces. “Movement in the west wing.”

  He and Winters shifted. They weren’t at the best angle but nothing caught his eye.

  “Heavy drapes,” their sniper continued. “I’ve got nothing more than shadows.”

  Chance recounted the update to Sal and Pennebaker. They moved to the garage. Pennebaker unlocked the door.

  “The system’s not armed,” Chance pointed out.

  “The systems not on,” Pennebaker corrected.

  They filed through a hall. “We’re out a job if you’re wrong and they’re upstairs fucking,” Sal added.

  They stopped in the large kitchen long enough for Chance to eye the dirty dishes abandoned on the counter. Sal and Winters, opposites in nightclub clothes and tactical gear, hustled through the hall. Pennebaker peeled off, heading toward the back stairs. Chance took the lead and charged up the stairs. The place was a maze of dark corridors and halls, but gut instinct directed him toward the master bedroom. The walls were lined with priceless works of art, but for a split second, he recalled the moment in Syria when a wall fell and separated them from Teddy. Jane questioned him. He’d heard the fear in her words. At the time, he didn’t understand how a job could possibly be so important. Now, he was certain the fallout from this job would dictate the rest of his life.

  They approached the end of a hall. The master bedroom had multiple points of entry, including through a sitting room. He put his hand up. Winters and Sal paused. Chance listened. Nothing. His heartbeat drummed. He pointed at Winters and the far bedroom door. Silently, he moved as ordered, positioning himself to the side of the grand French doors.

  Chance met Sal’s eye. “If you want out, you can roll.”

  “Sometimes you gotta risk it all.” Sal smiled weakly. “I don’t have any training. Not like you guys. I’m just a guy who sits in a guard house.”

  “Maybe that’ll change today—or we’ll all get fired.”

  Sal chuckled then froze. Muffled voices came from the bedroom. They certainly weren’t fucking, but Chance couldn’t decipher their words or tone. He posted Sal behind him, against the wall. “Wait for my word. Then pull the drapes.”

  “Why?”

  “For another set of eyes. In case we need help.”

  Unconvinced, Sal rolled his bottom lip but gave a curt nod. “Got it.”

  Pennebaker stepped from the back stairwell. Chance directed him opposite Winters. Once in position, Chance crept for the sitting room door. He tested for the doorknob—unlocked—and eyed the men at the end of the hall. Winters and Pennebaker nodded, ready to go. Winters and Chance had their weapons drawn. He held up his hand and gave a three count and signaled go-time.

  They pushed through the doors. Glock in hand, Chance found himself in the middle of a clothing explosion. Lark screamed, throwing her hands into the air. Gigi’s surprised cry rang out as well.

  “What the…” Sal edged into the sitting room and skirted along the wall.

  “It’s not what you think,” Lark tried, easing her arms down.

  Chance shook his head. Her arms jerked higher. “Where’s Jane?”

  Sal ripped the drapes back.

  “You don’t understand,” Lark fumbled.

  Sal stepped into the bedroom, continuing to rip open the windows.

  “Go.” Chance ordered Lark into the connecting master bedroom.

  She tripped over a pile of hangers, further scattering them in her rush. Gigi sat on top of a clothes-covered bench at the foot of her bed. Lark took a seat, too.

  Winters cleared a walk-in closet and searched the half-open wardrobe before he moved to the next walk-in closet.

  “Clear?” Gigi demanded. “You’re in my bedroom!”

  Pennebaker stepped over strewn shoes. “What happened in here?”

  Chance searched for an answer. The bedroom was worse than the sitting room. Glass shards from a broken mirror covered the vanity. Makeup had been thrown across the room. Red lipstick had been used to write slut across the wall. Shredded clothing hung everywhere.

  He directed Sal and Pennebaker. “Help Winters clear the room.” The master bedroom had more alcoves and walk-in closets than necessary for two people, no matter their wealth. “Where’s Dax?”

  Blotchy red patches grew on Gigi’s face and neck. “Not here.”

  Winters stepped from the second walk-in and caught Chance’s eye. “Clear—destroyed, but clear.”

  He towered over the women. “Where’s Jane?”

  “We don’t know,” Lark said coolly. “We just walked in—”

  Hangers clattered. Curses tangled with the familiar sound of flesh hitting flesh. A struggle thundered in the walk-in that Sal and Pennebaker had stepped into. Winters rushed across the room. Chance ordered the women to stay put.

  “Gun,” their sniper announced in their earpieces. “Third tango is armed with a hostage.”

  Chance repositioned as Dax stepped into the bedroom, eyes wild, nostrils flaring, with Pennebaker’s weapon pressed against his throat. Winters dropped for cover behind the bed.

  “Do you have a clean shot?” HQ requested of the sniper.

  “Negative.”

  Gigi stood. Chance refocused on her. “Sit down.”

  “He’s confused,” Gigi explained. “We just came home, and this is what we see. You’re here. Of course Dax would protect—”

  “Sit. Down.”

  Dax yanked Pennebaker into the room. His finger haphazardly curled over the trigger. The security guard didn’t struggle. Winters stood from his defensive position, searching for cover and a better shot. Their options weren’t great.

  “Dax, put your weapon down,” Chance said calmly. “Then explain.”

  He scooted closer to them. Winters repositioned, following Dax.

  Gigi slapped her thighs. “You know what? You’re going to jail. All of you. Breaking and entering into my house.” Her breaths shook. “Just leave!”

  Dax sidestepped. His sloppy grip on the weapon made sweat form on the back of Chance’s neck. Winters angled inside the bathroom door and faltered, cursing under his breath. Their comm system amplified it in Chance’s ear.

  Winters backed into the bathroom. “HQ, we need immediate medical transport.”

  The floor felt as though it had fallen from under Chance. A cold wave of nausea rocked hit. He struggled to keep his weapon up as his earpiece transmitted the sound of sloshing water.

  “We just walked in,” Gigi screeched. “Dax, damn it, put the gun down. We all just walked in.”

  “Midas,” Winters called. “Now.”

  His stomach churned. Chance kept his weapon up but moved to the bathroom. “What?” He glanced in and saw I loved you scrawled over the mirror in lipstick. Coldness burned in his limbs. “What’d they do?” Chance forced himself into the bathroom. Only the bottom of Winters’s boots were visible from around the corner. The steady thud of chest compressions thundered in the stark white bathroom.

  Chance gave Gigi, Lark, and Dax one last look. “If you—when you run, I will find you. Whatever you’ve done. You will pay.” Then he stepped into hell.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  Chance holstered his weapon and prayed. He hadn’t done that much in his life. Maybe he needed to do it more often—or maybe not. But as he knelt next to a tub filled with blood-red water and Jane laying lifelessly on the bathroom floor, his prayers were vicious, savage requests for retribution.

  “Her wrists.” Water dripped off of Winters as he spoke between chest compressions. “Hold the towels.” Another chest compression, then he positioned her airway and gave two breaths.

  Winters had wrapped towels tightly around Jane’s wrists, but they still needed pressure. Chance held them as best he could.

  Pennebaker rounded the corner. Sweat dampened his Hawaiian shirt and he stumbled back as he caught sight of them on the floor, but got to work, taking one of Jane’s wrists from Chance. “Sal’s still out. Dax got me with so
mething—” he gagged “—over my mouth. Just for a minute. Long enough.”

  Jane choked. Water gurgled from between her lips. Winters turned her head. Her stomach convulsed. Her breaths returned, faint and choppy.

  The back of Chance’s throat ached. “There you go, Mary Poppins.” He watched her eyelashes. They fluttered, not opening. “You’re going to be fine.” Sirens wailed in the distance. “Everything will be fine.”

  “I’ll get the door.” Pennebaker nodded for Chance to take Jane’s wrist again—but he stumbled to find his balance.

  “You stay here.” Chance switched with Pennebaker. The front door seemed miles away. He promised Jane that everything would be okay, then hustled from the bathroom. Of course Dax, Gigi, and Lark would be gone. Chance would ruin the rest of his life if it meant he could ruin theirs.

  Until then, he needed for help to arrive. Chance bounded down the front stairs and across the foyer. Something moved in his peripheral vision, and he spun toward the living room. Their sniper had pulled a wingback chair in front of a couch. The man they called Cash cradled his rifle and wore a look that said try me. Inches away, Dax, Gigi, and Lark sat on the couch, thigh to thigh, bound by plastic zip-ties.

  The sniper smiled darkly. “They’ve requested a lawyer.”

  Chance’s eyebrows arched.

  “To which I explained in no uncertain terms, I didn’t give a shit.”

  If he weren’t waiting for Jane’s ambulance, Chance might have laughed.

  “I don’t know who you are,” the sniper added. “I’ll never see you again. But I know Boss Man would give his stamp of approval to whatever you want to do with these three before we hand them over to the cops.”

  What did Chance want to do? He stared at them. Though Dax was coming off of an adrenaline high, he seemed unfazed, Gigi was put out and indignant, and Lark was clearly calculating how best to spin the situation to the press. They weren’t worried that Chance would tear them limb from limb—nor were they worried about Jane.

  “What do you want to do?” Cash prompted.

  The only thing Chance wanted was to be by Jane’s side. “Let them rot in a prison cell. I don’t care.”