The Phoenix Agency_Her Uncommon Protector

by Kate Richards

  He moved through the house from room to room, phone in hand, checking windows and doors, closets, under furniture, his gun at the ready. By the time he’d made it through both floors, he heard the roar of engines outside.

  We’re here. Wait until we give the word to open the front door.

  Clive watched through the window as the men swarmed from the SUVs and across the property. Trent strode up to the entrance and examined it for boobytraps. In a moment, he waved, and Clive opened the door. “Thanks for coming.”

  “That’s what we get paid for.” Trent came in. “Nothing wrong with the house?”

  “Doesn’t look like they made it inside. Which I can’t figure, considering they were bold enough to blow up the garage. Why would they do that and then just leave?”

  Trent shook his head. “I don’t have any idea yet, either. Unless something disturbed them. Scared them off. But”—he glanced at his phone screen—“hang on.” Leaning outside, he waved over a couple of men. “Sione and Bjorn, I want you to stay in the house. Close and lock the door again, and don’t open for anyone but me or Mr. Harrington here. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.” The taller of the two, a dark man he thought might be Samoan or some other Pacific Islander from his large frame and appearance, stepped into the foyer, followed by a blond, leaner but no less imposing man. They both wore fitted black T-shirts emblazoned with the company logo and black camouflage pants with laden pockets, as did their boss. “You can rely on us.”

  “I know I can. He stuffed his phone into his pocket and headed outdoors. Clive followed. “Let’s get over to the garage.”

  With a sick feeling in his stomach, Clive rounded the house. The formerly neat garage with its mother-in-law unit above was now a pile of splintered wood and debris. “What did you learn?” He hated the thought that the security man had been blown up by those bastards. Sure, anyone taking a job in their industry knew the dangers, but too many good men lost their lives. As long as evil walked the world, they would continue their work, but that didn’t make it any easier when something bad happened.

  “Well, the text I got was from Julius.”

  “Julius? Was that by any chance the man stationed on the property?” A flicker of hope lit inside him.

  “No, unfortunately.”

  “Slim chance he’s alive, I suppose.” Damn. He hated losing a man. They knew the danger when they took on the job, but that didn’t make it any better when one went down. He’d been hired to protect her, with the thought the drug lord would get busy with other things after a while, but this attack said something different. And that changed Clive’s job description, in his mind, at least. “I want that bastard’s head on a platter.”

  Trent studied his phone then looked up again. “I’ll bring the carving knife. I’ve known Frank for five years. If, as seems likely, he’s been killed, it has become my personal mission to avenge him.

  “Then we have the same mission.”

  They approached the detritus as sirens wailed in the distance and the first fingers of dawn brightened the horizon. “That’s Julius right up ahead.”

  A dark-haired man in T-shirt and camouflage pants like the others rose from where he’d been crouching by a lumpy bundle of shredded fabric. “Over here, boss.” He dusted his hands on his pants. “Come take a look at this.”

  “What do you have?” But he didn’t really need to ask. The lump was what remained of a human being after being ripped apart by an explosive that had gone off unexpectedly. Once, early on in his career, he would have been sickened by the sight. But he’d seen too many colleagues go down. Now, he only felt rage.

  Penny crouched in the back of her closet, trying to remain concealed behind her jeans and shirts and wishing she had a few evening gowns that might actually hide her legs and feet. Girly clothes certainly had their advantages. Well, this one, anyway. Even the black sheath dress she wore to departmental functions—accessorized with different jackets and scarfs—was barely knee-length. Her first action had been to yank on jeans and a shirt. And a pair of her expedition boots. Underwear and socks lay in her dresser drawer in the bedroom, but, somehow, having her breasts lifted and separated or her feet safe from blisters didn’t seem important at the moment.

  If her life had taken a turn for the dangerous, maybe she needed a panic room, or at least a secret door for escape purposes. With the closet door closed, the silence pressed in around her ears. She didn’t dare take her phone off mute in case any of the criminals had managed to get past Clive and into the house.

  Clive! Had he gotten any backup? Surely, he’d have called Trent, or the police would be here soon? Or someone else from Phoenix? They weren’t local, though. She thought she remembered they were in Texas or somewhere. Why had she let him go out there alone, like that?

  Creeping forward, she pressed her ear to the door, which she hadn’t barricaded because, as she had neglected to point out, it opened into the room. Hearing no sounds, she considered her options. With her scarf collection, she could probably tie the door closed, but what if Clive needed her? She pressed the phone to light up its screen, something she’d already done several times.

  She couldn’t undo a bunch of knots fast enough. Sinking to sit on the carpeted floor, she listened to her breathing and her heart pounding in her ears. She tried listening at the door again, before cursing her rejection of a hollow door. This one, a magnificently carved, maple masterpiece, made hearing anything from the other side impossible.

  Her obsession with doors should have carried over into security! Of course, she was sitting in a house outfitted with a system worthy of an embassy, worried about someone getting in.

  The minutes ticked by at a snail’s pace, her phone’s glow the only light in her cell. And it felt like a cell. With no bars, and nothing keeping her in. Clive faced one of the scariest warlords it had ever been her displeasure to cross, or at least his hired guns while she huddled like a frightened mouse behind her fabulous, unlockable door.

  How crazy was that?

  Very.

  Never in all the years she’d led teams into dangerous areas had she huddled anywhere. Never. Not once. So why, when the man who’d rocked her world and threatened to get past her emotional barricades faced danger, did she sit on her ass?

  What kind of woman did that? Not her kind.

  What if she did try to help him and got in the way? She was great with escape plans and intuition that gave her time to implement them, but she’d never actually had to fight those she’d fled. Why had she resisted buying a gun? Tension knotted her shoulders, and the phone screen went dim

  Sure, she hadn’t changed her convictions that a person shouldn’t handle such a weapon unless they planned to use it. But right now, she understood something she hadn’t before. She could. If someone came at Clive and she held a pistol, she’d blow their head off. Maybe just shoot them in the leg? Nope. Not and give them a chance to harm him.

  Wow. Unfortunate to realize that now. No gun vendor lurked in her closet. She swiped the phone screen and scanned the small space for anything she could use as a weapon. Shoes, clothes, scarves. The shelf over the racks was piled with souvenirs from her travels. Gifts from grateful villages and oddball stuff she’d picked up along the way. Penny tried to think if there was anything at all useful. Statuettes, books, pressed leaves, bullwhip. That might be good, if she knew how to make use of it.

  Nothing. She’d have to go out there emptyhanded. And probably just distract him and get them both killed.

  Go.

  Stay.

  The longer she waited, the more anxious she became.

  But, still, she wavered for another minute, two…until the feeling of danger she recognized from all those journeys nearly knocked her over with its intensity. Danger. Clive. Out!

  And, as she lunged for the door, her gaze lit on the one souvenir that might be helpful. Propped in the corner was a walking stick made from the South American white floss tree. The medicine man who’d given it to
her had carved away enough to make a safe handhold, but the rest was covered with stiff, one- to two-inch thorns that would certainly hurt if not cause permanent damage. Her benefactor had explained its handiness when walking alone where predators lurked.

  Predators.

  What else would she name those who came to harm or kill her for providing water to thirsty children?

  Whom they treated like prey.

  Closing her fist around the grip, she twisted the knob and let herself out, hoping to surprise anyone who might have made it into her bedroom. To her relief, the room seemed clear, and she padded quietly to the door to the hallway and listened. Again…another fabulous, nearly soundproof door. She made a vow to exchange them all for beaded curtains if she survived the night. Unlocking it, she opened the door a crack and waited. Not a sound greeted her ears, so she opened it the rest of the way and stepped into the hall.

  And into the steely grip of a man nearly as tall as Clive and not nearly as welcome. The swarthy man could have been on the cover of South American Drug Lords Weekly, and for good reason.

  “Profesora. At last we meet.”

  Chapter Seven

  Clive waited while Trent crouched, examining the corpse. No need to call it anything else. Nobody could look like that and be alive. Limbs were burnt lumps, and he could see through the chest to the ground below. The face…well, the forehead was still there. Overall, someone who’d been blown up. Not his first bombing victim, but the violence always shocked him just a little deep down. He supposed if he ever lost that feeling, he’d be giving up some of his humanity to be able to understand that level of willing violence. No thanks.

  But seeing it sent him right back into the past. When he’d been boots on the ground in some faraway place, and part of their team or innocent civilians ended up looking a lot like this. In fact—he swallowed his gorge and moved in for a closer look—it wasn’t his team members or the civilians who had that particular opening mid-body. “This isn’t your man, is it, Trent?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “Any sign of him?”

  “Not yet. Logic tells me he’s in that rubble over there, but, until we find him, there’s some hope, I suppose.” He waved to where a handful of men tossed aside boards and lifted off sections of wall. Those muscles that they didn’t need on their day-to-day security system installation sure came in handy.

  “Damn right.” The sirens in the distance grew closer. “They’ll be here soon and take over, so we’d better get what we can now.”

  “Well, no doubt of what killed this guy.” Trent pulled out a phone and snapped a picture while he did the same. “I’d like to see what kind of bomb blew out his torso before he had a chance to walk away.”

  “So you don’t think he’s a suicide bomber?” Clive didn’t either, but he wanted the other man’s thoughts on the subject.

  “Nah. There’s no reason to believe that. He’s a hired gun who came here to carry out Diego Francisco’s vengeance against your girlfriend.”

  “She’s not…” The protest died on his lips. While his status with Professor Penny mattered greatly to him, it didn’t matter to Trent or his team. And it couldn’t be allowed to distract him from the more important matter of keeping her safe. “He’s no loss.”

  Another man came up beside them. “Ernie, do your thing.” Trent stepped back. “Ernie is our demolitions expert. Before he came to work with us, he’d done three tours in the Middle East. He saved a lot of lives with his expertise.”

  “Nice to meet you, Ernie,” Clive said, watching the ginger-haired man squat by the remains of the bomber. “That’s quite a service record.”

  “I’d still be in, if not for this.” Ernie waved. “For some reason, they didn’t think the new version of my left hand was as efficient for bomb defusing as the old one.”

  Trent patted his shoulder. “Well, to be fair, the one they gave you wasn’t.”

  “True.” He chuckled, slipping a bag off his shoulder and digging inside with his right hand. “It was fine for eating dinner, but what I do requires finesse. Now, leave me to it so I can concentrate if you want to know what blew out this guy’s chest cavity, before locals come in and shoo me away.”

  Clive and Trent headed for the site of the former garage. “I want to get a look then head back inside. I left Penny in the bedroom closet, and she’s probably getting worried.”

  “About you?” Trent taunted then shook his head. “Sorry. There’s plenty of time for romance later, and I’m glad you at least aren’t losing focus.”

  “It’s harder than you can imagine. I’ve never had any interest in a protectee before, and the emotional element detracts from my professionalism if I’m not careful.”

  They stepped over broken glass and shingles, heading to where the men were digging. “I get that. My ex-girlfriend is also former military. I met her on a job.”

  “Protectee?”

  “Soldier. She’s part of the team, now. She didn’t think she could handle the job and our relationship.” His silence spoke volumes. She’d chosen the job. How hard must it be to see her all the time and know he’d come in second? Before he could begin to formulate an answer, Trent stepped over a fallen beam to where one of his crew was holding up some wires. “Okay, if you don’t find any sign of him, follow procedures and get on out before the locals arrive.”

  The men swarmed over the debris and, within moments, had carried off most of the—broken—equipment they’d installed in the apartment. How had all that equipment not caught the intruder’s arrival? Hopefully they’d be able to figure that out so it didn’t happen again. “Top secret?’

  “Let’s just say, we don’t want to share our tech. We work hard to develop it…”

  “And maybe some of it might not be approved by our government?”

  Trent faced him, the rising sunlight flaming in his eyes. “Every man, and woman, on my team is a reject of that government. They served their country and lost friends, family, limbs and were rewarded with a disability pension or maybe an offer of a desk job shuffling digital paperwork for the rest of their lives. They are heroes, one and all. The government is not their favorite organization.”

  “And you?”

  They strode toward the house, steps unflagging even when Trent bit out, “Especially me.”

  Clive didn’t have long to wonder what part of his time in the service had been stolen from him, before a shriek pierced the quiet dawn and he broke into a run.

  “Dammit,” he hollered over his shoulder. “Why did I leave her alone?”

  Penny faced the swarthy, bearded enemy who’d ordered her death. At least she assumed that was what his men had been ordered to do. “Diego Francisco.” She held her arm with the stick at her side, hoping he wouldn’t get a good look at it. “How kind of you to visit. I believe a couple of your friends were here the other day, but they didn’t stay for coffee. Unless…they truly were just lost travelers and you’ve come alone?”

  “You are prettier than I was led to believe. Perhaps I will have you taken to my home where we can spend some time together.” He leered at her, and she fought the urge to smack him across the face with her spiked weapon. But she had to make it count. Wait for an opening. Or, preferably, hang on long enough for Clive to come back

  “I don’t think that’s a very good idea. I don’t have any vacation time available just now.” Her voice didn’t shake. Amazing.

  He drew a gun and pointed it at her. Even with her limited knowledge of firearms, she knew it was something special—and deadly. “Now, please take a step back into your bedroom. That is your bedroom you came out of?”

  She nodded.

  “Good.” His grin showed a mouthful of gold molars. “Then I shall accompany you into your bedroom, where I will give you an opportunity to convince me that I should invite you to my home instead of just killing you now.” He reached out and lifted a lock of her hair from her shoulder, and she shuddered. “Very soft.” He wrapped it around his
fist. “Come now. While my men take care of your boyfriend, you can use those rosy lips to give me a reason to keep you alive. After all, I can’t justify paying for your execution, then calling it off, unless you are useful to me. I think I shall keep you chained to my desk, naked, on your knees, while I conduct my business.”

  “When pigs fly will I let you touch me.”

  “Ah, now, chiquita, don’t be that way. I am sure you can please me. Have confidence in yourself.” He dragged her back into her bedroom and slammed the door. “You cost me with my people, you know. All it would have taken was a few more to die of thirst or dysentery and they would have come back to work.”

  She trembled, but no longer with fear. Her hand tightened on the walking stick, her pinky scraping one of the spikes. Her arm muscles twitched, but she stilled her instincts to wait for her opportunity. She couldn’t imagine how he hadn’t spotted the club so far, but thanked the universe and all good in it that he hadn’t. Still, her danger sense rang like a klaxon in her head, making it hard to think. And letting her know she needed to do something to change the probable outcome of the situation at hand.

  And until she did, it would get louder and louder, going from helpful to harmful on its own. She faced a narrow window to make a move.

  Clutching the stick behind her back, she stumbled along behind the drug lord, who ranted on about all the ways she could earn her life back, mostly sexual—okay, all sexual/power games. While chained to his desk she could not only do the obvious, but also massage his legs and feet. Ugh. Be his footstool. On and on it went, a list of things she’d sooner kill herself than do, but would prefer to kill him first, until the alarm in her head drowned it out and, in an odd way, gave her a space of silence where she could plan.