The Defender: RYDER (Cover Six Security Book 3)

by Lisa B. Kamps

  Yeah, it was that at worst that propelled him into action. He'd taken off after them, running like hell, his long stride eating up the distance between them. He couldn't just jump on the back bumper—well, he could, but that would create a hell of a lot of questions he didn't want to answer—so he'd veered off the road for a little cross-country sprint until he got ahead of them. The expression on the weasel's face when he saw him standing in the middle of the road had been fucking priceless.

  And yeah, he was shallow enough to admit that the look on Hannah's face had been pretty damn rewarding, too, because she'd looked at him like he was some kind of damn superhero. Only for a few seconds but yeah, it had been worth it.

  Until she realized how angry he was.

  He grabbed the stained rag from his back pocket and mopped the sweat from his face then finished setting the post. It wasn't the greatest job he'd ever done but considering what he had to work with, it would do. It didn't have to look pretty as long as it did what it was supposed to do, which was support the rails for the fence.

  He looked behind him and studied the other posts he'd already put in during the last couple of hours. They were set back fifteen feet from the edge of the damn cliff, a staggered line of pale wood sentinels marking a buffered safety zone. Ryder was under no assumption that the damn fence would keep anyone from venturing too close, and it sure as hell wouldn't stop a full-grown man from breaking through, not if they hit it running. But it might—stress on the might—stop a kid from getting too close and getting into trouble.

  That's all he cared about.

  Of course, there were no guarantees that he'd even finish the damn thing today—which meant it wouldn't get finished at all. There weren't enough supplies to line the entire perimeter so he'd marked off what he thought was the most vulnerable area, then paced off the distance between each post. The lack of supplies wasn't the only thing hampering him—he was working by himself because everyone else was doing something different. The weasel had thrown a damn fit when Ryder told him he'd be working on the fence. His face had gone all red and his eyes had damn near popped out of their sockets. But it wasn't like he could say no, not without giving a damn good reason—and he didn't have one. Not after the near-accident the other day. Not when Hannah had immediately jumped in and said what a great idea it was.

  No, the weasel couldn't tell him no, not without looking like a total ass—but he made damn sure Ryder didn't have any help doing it.

  He shoved the rag back into his pocket then pulled the damp shirt away from his chest. At this rate, he wouldn't have any more clean clothes. Not that he needed them because they were leaving in the morning. They'd get a room at one of the resorts on the other island and he'd send his clothes out to be cleaned. Or hell, maybe he'd even buy some new ones, he didn't give a shit. They'd have two days to just kick back and relax, a mini-vacation of sorts. Clear blue water. Sandy beaches. Tropical drinks.

  Him. Ninja. Allison.

  And Hannah.

  Because she was coming with them, even if he had to carry her kicking and screaming.

  He would have preferred to leave this morning but that hadn't happened. Hell, even this afternoon would be better than waiting until tomorrow—he was starting to get that little tingle at the back of his neck that warned shit was about to get real. But this afternoon probably wasn't going to happen, either, so he'd have to settle for tomorrow morning.

  Sixteen hours shouldn't make much difference, not in this situation.

  Yeah, sure. So why the hell was his internal warning system starting to kick into gear?

  He moved closer to the edge of the cliff and looked at the deserted beach below. He couldn't see the cave from here but he knew it was down there—along with that cache of weapons.

  Those weapons still bothered him. Not just their presence—that was bad enough. Shouldn't the authorities be storming the beach by now? Surrounding the cave and removing the weapons, searching for whoever in hell had put them there? At least five hours had gone by since the call was made, surely that was enough time for somebody to do something. He'd heard of island time but Christ, surely that didn't apply to gun smuggling.

  Ryder would keep an eye on things while he worked on the fence and if he didn't see any movement by the time they left, he'd call Mac when they got back. Between him and Chaos, they should be able to light a fire under someone somewhere and get it taken care of.

  He heard hesitant footsteps behind him, followed by the sound of a throat being cleared. He knew who it was without looking, had sensed her approach long before hearing her.

  Hannah.

  He glanced over his shoulder but didn't bother turning around. "If you were going to push me off, you lost your chance."

  Her eyes widened then quickly narrowed as she glared at him. "That's not even funny."

  "Wasn't saying it to be funny."

  "Then why say it all?"

  "Because I know you're still pissed at me." He turned his head away from her, went back to staring at the beach below. At the clear blue water and the white-capped waves crashing against the sand and rocks.

  Hannah moved next to him, close enough that their arms brushed when she held out a bottle of water. "I thought you might be thirsty."

  He nodded, accepted the water and took several long gulps.

  "Lunch is going to be ready in a few minutes."

  "I'll pass. I want to get as much done as I can."

  "Ryder, you need to eat. You skipped breakfast and—"

  "I had a protein bar." A high-calorie, nutrient-dense, protein-laden slab of cardboard was a more accurate description but what the hell, it served its purpose.

  "Where did you get a protein bar?"

  "My pack. I always carry some with me." Along with a bunch of other goodies that she didn't need to know about. Not that he had most of those goodies with him on this trip—another downside of flying commercial.

  "Well, you should still eat."

  "We'll see."

  They stood in silence for several minutes, staring out over the water below. Not talking. Not touching. Just...being. For a few precious moments, it was just the two of them. No history. No anger. No regrets. No tension.

  Of course, it was nothing more than an illusion, one that ended when Hannah shifted beside him.

  "I—" She hesitated. Cleared her throat. Jammed her hands into the front pockets of her khaki shorts and rocked back on her heels. "I owe you an apology."

  That surprised him enough that he looked over at her. But she was still staring straight ahead, her gaze focused on something only she could see.

  "An apology for what?"

  "For overreacting this morning. For storming off the way I did."

  "For getting into the van with that asshole when you knew what he'd done?" Despite his attempts at keeping his voice calm, the words carried an edge that hinted at his anger. He expected Hannah to storm off again, or at least lash out at him, but she did neither.

  "Yeah, that too." She sighed, glanced at him from the corner of her eye, then stared straight ahead. "What's going to happen with the—with what's down there?"

  Ryder frowned at the question, then remembered she had already stormed out of the bungalow when he relayed that information to Allison this morning. "The authorities were called this morning and given an anonymous tip."

  "Called? How? Cell service—"

  "We have a sat phone. I called back home and they relayed the intel."

  "Is that how you found out about—"

  "Yeah."

  Hannah nodded. "Have they come to get them yet? Whoever it was you called, I mean."

  "Not yet, no. Not that I've seen." Was it possible the authorities had shown up earlier, before he got here? Maybe—but Ryder doubted it. If that was the case, there should still be activity on the beach. At least, there would be if they were back home. The beach would be a solid wall of black as officials combed every nook and cranny and turned over every grain of sand.

 
"Do you think Kevin is involved at all? With what's down there, I mean."

  Ryder didn't answer right away. He couldn't, because he didn't know how to answer. The weasel—aka Kevin, aka Samuel Bannister—was a real piece of shit, there was no doubt about that. But was he actually involved in smuggling guns? Ryder didn't want to give him credit for being smart enough—or ruthless enough—to run an operation like that but he also wasn't foolish enough to discount the possibility. It took a degree of intelligence—or sheer stupidity—to execute a con like the one he had going on down here. Had he branched out into gun smuggling?

  Maybe.

  Maybe not.

  And his gut was totally undecided, which didn't help matters.

  "I don't know. It's possible. But whether or not it's likely is a different story. That's a big leap to take, from running a con to running guns."

  Hannah nodded, a frown creasing her face as she studied the water below. She tilted her head to the side, her voice a little distracted when she spoke. "Do you think it could be anyone else here?"

  "Like who?"

  "I don't know. Any of the volunteers. Could any of them be responsible?"

  Ryder turned and studied the small group spread out behind him.

  The weasel, standing off to the side with his hands on his hips, frowning at nothing in particular. At least, nothing that Ryder could see. A con man, yes. But was he guilty of anything else?

  Katie Miller. Young. Quiet. Ryder didn't think he'd heard her talk once since he'd been here. She was talking now, though, her expression distracted and fearful as she slapped paint on the concrete walls of the half-finished building under the direction of her grandmother, Eva Miller.

  The older woman seemed nice enough, not that Ryder had spent much time talking to her, either. She had certainly taken a liking to Ninja, though, had even asked about him earlier when Ryder got here. Was she nothing more than a happy-humanitarian-retiree or was that simply a cover for something else?

  Her husband, George Miller. The older man was standing under the shade provided by the lush vegetation near the start of the trail leading down to the beach. As Ryder watched, he fanned himself with his hand and drank greedily from a bottle of water. He'd no doubt overexerted himself doing...Ryder had no idea what he'd been doing. It could have been nothing more strenuous than carrying paint cans back and forth, evidenced by the paint that was smudged on his sleeve and the hem of his shirt.

  Cindy and Darla, two college women who seemed more interested in partying than working. Why they had signed up for a week of volunteering—and paid for the opportunity on top of it—was beyond Ryder. They'd done more bickering than anything else in the time he'd been here. Even now, the paint brushes in their hands were forgotten as they bent their heads together. Tension radiated from each woman as they quietly argued about something. If he had to guess, it was about Casanova.

  Casanova, the typical party dude. He was—Ryder frowned, searching the small crowd. Casanova was nowhere to be found.

  Ryder turned back to Hannah, ready to ask where Tim was. He never got the words out because Hannah's hand clamped down on his arm, fingers biting into his flesh as she pointed with her free hand.

  "Ryder, what's that?"

  He ignored the sudden chalkiness of her complexion, ignored the tremor in her voice and the trembling of her hand as she pointed. He quickly scanned the horizon, his gaze landing on the debris floating in the surf. It looked like a log, drifting in with each wave before being pulled farther out by the current.

  Except it wasn't a log.

  It was a body.

  Ryder took off at a run, shouting for someone to get help as he hit the trail and started his way down to the beach. Someone screamed, the shrill noise drowned out by shouts—confused at first, then surprised, then horrified. Pounding footsteps echoed behind him, fading as he outran whoever was following him.

  His boots sank into the sand at the end of the trail but he kept going, hitting the surf at a dead run. Waves pulled at his feet, threatening to throw him off-balance as he surged deeper into the water. He dove in, salt stinging his eyes, arms slicing through clear blue water. Closer, fighting for each inch of distance until he reached the body. His hand closed onto an arm, fisted in the soggy shirt as he pulled the body into his chest and turned toward the shoreline. Kicking. Pulling. Letting the waves push him closer, using his powerful legs and free arm to fight the current trying to pull him back out. Close. Closer, until his feet touched sand and he was able to stand. To walk out, dragging the body closer until hands reached for him, trying to help.

  Hannah, her pale face twisted into an expression of horror.

  He pushed her away, dragged the body onto the sand and knelt beside it. Did a quick triage then leaned back on his heels. His gaze met Hannah's and he shook his head. Denial flashed in her eyes. She shook her head. Moved closer.

  "Ryder, do something. CPR. Mouth-to-mouth. Maybe it's not too late—" She started to kneel, reached out to touch the body. Ryder pushed to his feet and wrapped one arm around her waist, pulling her away.

  "There's nothing we can do, Hannah."

  "But—"

  He turned her away from the body, looked down into her eyes and slowly shook his head. "There's nothing we can do."

  It was too late. Tim would never party again.

  Whoever had crushed the back of his skull in had made sure of it.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The activity on the beach was fading as quickly as the heat of the day beneath the clouds moving in from the east. Three people had shown up more than twenty minutes after the call for help had been placed—which had been a good fifteen minutes after Ryder had shouted for someone to make that call.

  Three people.

  Two men who Ryder figured must be the equivalent of paramedics and a police officer.

  One single police officer.

  The onlookers outnumbered the officials two-to-one. Not surprising, considering everyone from Hannah's small volunteer group was here. And nobody seemed inclined to leave, not when the officials were still huddled around the shroud-draped body, talking in low tones so they wouldn't be overheard. A preliminary investigation had been completed—which consisted of the officer looking at the back of Tim's head and snapping a few pictures with a digital camera. He'd taken a brief statement from Hannah and Ryder then returned to the two men standing by the body.

  The screams and cries had died down, fading to nothing more than an occasional sniffle. A brief wail of disbelief, a subdued whisper of speculation. The sounds were caught by the growing breeze and carried away, dying under the angry waves pounding the shoreline.

  Hannah remained silent, saying nothing since giving her brief statement to the officer. Yes, she had been the first one to spot the body. Had pointed it out to Ryder, who took off toward the beach. No, she didn't know who it was first. No, she couldn't remember the last time she'd seen Tim.

  She'd turned to Ryder as soon as the officer left, had wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her head in his chest, heedless of his wet clothes. He didn't say anything, just folded her into his arms and held her as he watched the men talk.

  As he watched the small group around him. Listened to snippets of their muted conversations. Studied each face, looking for something—anything—that didn't belong. All he saw was a mixture of emotions, ranging from shock to disbelief to sorrow. If anyone from their small group had been involved, they were doing a good job of hiding it.

  And none of them had even glanced toward the cave, its entrance hidden fifty yards away. Not even Darla, who had just been there. She was huddled against Cindy, the two women comforting each other, their differences forgotten in the face of Tim's death.

  Had it been an accident? Maybe. Tim could have come down here for a 'smoke' break. He could have waded into the water and slipped. Could have hit the back of his head on something and been knocked unconscious.

  Maybe...but Ryder wasn't buying it. He knew what a head looke
d like when it had been bashed in with something big and heavy. An injury like the one on the back of Tim's head didn't come from simply slipping and falling in the surf. If he'd fallen from a distance and landed on his head then yeah, he might have sustained an injury like that. But there were no other visible bruises on the body. No scrapes or cuts or contusions. Nothing marred his clothes except for a few smudges of paint. No rips. No tears. Nothing.

  As far as Ryder was concerned, this hadn't been an accident.

  A cool gust of wind blew over them. Hannah shivered and he tightened his arms around her, looked up at the sky. A storm was coming in. The surf was getting rougher, the blue changing to an angry gray under the darkening sky. Some time within the next half-hour, give or take a few minutes, they'd all be drenched.

  The three men must have realized the same thing because they stopped talking and started moving. The paramedics secured the body to the stretcher then picked it up, balancing the weight between them before moving to the trail that would take them back up. The officer led the way, stepping to the side when they reached the path then falling in behind them. One by one, the onlookers followed, a somber funeral procession winding its way up the narrow trail.

  He tried to step back but Hannah's arms tightened around his waist, holding him in place. He didn't stop to think, just pressed a quick kiss against the top of her head before looking down at her. "We need to go."

  "I know. I just—" Her words trailed off in a sigh, the sound muffled against his chest.

  He ignored the sensation of her breath, and the way it warmed his skin through the damp shirt. Tightened his arms briefly then stepped back. He didn't miss her sigh, or the fleeting expression of loss that shadowed her eyes. Loss at his hold—or loss of an acquaintance?

  And what kind of ass did that make him, to even wonder about such a thing? She'd probably never seen a body before, not one recently killed and certainly not one of someone she knew. Tim's body hadn't been disemboweled or decapitated or otherwise mutilated except for the injury to the back of this head but that wouldn't make it any easier for her to see. Violent death was ugly, no matter how it happened. If she wasn't in shock, then she most certainly must be stunned. Her silence the last half hour was testament to that. Hell, the fact that she had stepped into his arms with a silent plea to be held told him she was stunned.