Final Siege

by Scarlett Cole

  As soon as the questions left her lips, she knew it was a mistake. As much as she’d needed to ask them, now was most definitely not the time.

  Reba breathed heavily into the phone for a moment, then came the telltale clink of stemware and ice. She’d probably been drinking since lunch. “A mother isn’t supposed to outlast her child, Delaney. It ain’t natural.” The sound of ice clinking got closer to the phone, followed by the slosh of liquid. “I don’t know what happened on that cliff, and I’ll never know for sure. But the coroner did record an accidental death verdict, and from what I heard, Mac has gone on and done very honorable things.” Her mother sniffed again, followed by more ice-cube sloshing. “Maybe it’s time for us to heal.”

  “Okay, I gotta go, Mom. Let’s do lunch one day this week if you feel like it.” If you can stay sober long enough.

  “I’d love that. I think I may get Brock’s baby book out and flick through it,” she said quietly, then hung up with a click.

  No goodbye. Delaney wondered whether she should go over and spend the night even though she didn’t want to. Drinking and Brock usually sent her mom into melodramatic tailspins, and she sometimes woke up on the floor. Alone and confused, occasionally injured.

  But Delaney wanted to be here, in her new home. And she wasn’t going to judge herself for it. For a decade, she’d done her best to pick up the pieces of her mother and had sat through countless verbal tirades when the viscous, angry drunk came out after the mournful, pitiful drunk had had its say. And it had taken years of therapy to sort through it all. Enabling her mom’s drinking wasn’t in anyone’s best interest.

  Delaney wandered to her kitchen and rummaged around in the fridge for a stir-fry. She set some frozen edamame to thaw under running cold water before carefully chopping some peppers and onions. Thank heavens for grocery delivery. She had everything she needed to last a few days. Even though her ankle was finally beginning to feel better, she doubted it was up to an expedition to the grocery store.

  A loud knock at her door made her jump, sending the knife clattering over the small counter. Nobody had her address except Mac and a guy Mac had sent over named Ghost who’d shown up that morning with new smoke detectors. Maybe it was one of her new neighbors? After all, nobody had buzzed from downstairs to be let in.

  Quietly, she went to the door and looked through the peephole. In the dim light of the hallway, she could see a man in a brown delivery uniform wearing a ball cap that said Lucy’s Floral on it and holding a huge bouquet of beautiful purple and white flowers. Her first thought was that it was from Mac. But then she saw it contained lilies, just like the ones they’d been laughing about earlier that always made her sneeze.

  “Who is it?” she shouted, though she could see him.

  “Flower delivery for Delaney Shapiro,” the man said, his face hidden from view, but his body language relaxed. The cap made her think of the man who’d followed her, but in the half-light it was hard to be sure.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Ma, I’m telling you. Me and Delaney. We aren’t a couple.” Mac picked at the last of his fries from the Four Seasons Hotel room service menu, dipping them in ketchup before taking a bite. He felt like he was fifteen again, and he had no interest whatsoever in discussing his love life with his mother.

  “I know, Malachai, but you two … well, you have a history. And it might be healing for the two of you to spend some time together.”

  He couldn’t bring himself to tell her to leave it alone, though, because Delaney and Brock had meant something to all of them. His mom had considered them extended family. Plus, everything about him and Delaney was muddled in his head. He’d thought the two of them spending time together might rip the Band-Aid off, but after the day on the beach, he was beginning to wonder if he wasn’t just picking at a scab.

  Mac looked around the double room he shared with Ryder who, along with Sherlock, was currently out with their client exploring the monuments of Washington’s National Mall. For a second, he let his mind wander to taking Delaney away to a luxury hotel like this. Bring her somewhere that wasn’t so tightly wrapped up in memories. It might do them both good to simply reconnect as Mac and Delaney, as adults. Create new memories that weren’t tainted by—no, that wasn’t right—weren’t so connected to the past. Or just find out once and for all what might be left of the two of them.

  “I know, Mom. But this runs deep for Delaney. It’s…” Shit. What was it? Two steps forward, one step back. “Complicated.”

  He grinned, remembering putting sunscreen on her back at the beach. The way her skin had felt just as soft and smooth as it used to. It had been the gentlemanly thing for Mac to do, taking the lotion from her and rubbing it in, even if it had taken Six to orchestrate it. And so what if he’d gotten a kick out of the way she’d shivered as he’d gently ran his fingers along the back of her neck? He’d gotten turned on when she’d sighed and moaned his name as he dug his fingers into her tense shoulders. It was so close to the way she’d used to say it when they’d made love. When she’d moved beneath him and fallen apart in his arms. And goddamn, as much as it had turned him on, it had hurt. An audible reminder of what he’d lost.

  “I’m sure it is for both of you, Malachai. It was an awful period in your lives. But it made you the man you are today, and I am very proud of you. I care about Delaney, but never more than I love you.”

  Words stuck in the back of his throat. His mom said she loved him every day, and somehow, even though he was across the country, he could feel the warmth of her words.

  “Thanks, Ma. Love you, too. Look, I gotta go. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  And he would because he’d spent so much time away from her, worrying her to death—although she’d never said a word—when he was in theatre, doing what he had to do. He owed it to her to spare a couple of minutes out of his day just to see how she was doing, even if all he had the time for was a quick text or one of those ridiculous selfies she’d begun to demand … something about needing to see he was in one piece while he was on a tour.

  Mac pushed away from the table and walked into the shower. It was early evening, and he’d been awake ninety minutes. He’d gone for a run through the city, the change in temperature from San Diego noticeable, but as always he’d been prepared for every temperature combination. Just because he’d trained in freezing weather didn’t mean he liked it. Unlike Ryder, who woke late in the afternoon for night shift craving breakfast, he’d craved a burger, fries, and a side of onion rings. It would have tasted a whole lot better with an ice-cold beer, but he’d never drunk on duty. Ever.

  Night shift on security detail was the most insanely boring one. Especially when the people being protected had young children. Everyone was locked down tight nice and early, meaning the hours dragged. He almost envied Sherlock and Ryder their daytime shifts.

  He wandered into the bathroom and turned on the shower, waiting for a moment for it to become hot. When he stepped inside, he let the water pound down on his head, which was foggy, even after getting outside for a while. He’d buried his feelings for Delaney so long that he’d managed to convince himself that he’d find a girl who wasn’t Delaney and settle down. But seeing her again had shattered that illusion. Seeing her had reminded him that while he’d dated some great women, they had been muted when compared to Delaney. No, if he’d settled, he’d only end up resenting any situation that didn’t include Delaney.

  Plus, he had a secret. Something he hadn’t told the rest of the guys. He wanted kids. Not in an abstract at-some-point-I’ll-have-them kind of way. But in a real wake-up-tomorrow-to-a-home-with-kids-in-it way. He’d put it off for his career, and he’d put it off to start Eagle, but he didn’t want to wait too much longer. Being around his client’s family the last few days had only reinforced that.

  By the time he’d finished up in the shower and gotten dressed, he’d managed to stop his thoughts from racing. He headed up to his client’s rooms and began his final walk around the Royal Sui
te, one of the largest and most expensive in the hotel, before Sherlock and Ryder brought their client and his family up to the room—though “room” was too weak a word for the huge space. It was almost bigger than Lochlan’s apartment, certainly more luxurious, and according to the website, cost nearly twenty grand a night. The suite’s entrance hall had been converted into a temporary security office, with monitors connected to external cameras showing the deserted hallway. He would spend the next ten hours in that office once his client returned. The vase of lilies he’d photographed to send to Delaney taunted him. She’d barely responded after he’d sent it, leaving him kicking himself for having dragged them both back into the past. What he really needed to be doing was pulling them into the future. But now wasn’t the time to think about any of that. He was on duty, and he needed to put everything else out of his mind.

  Thankfully, his job was made marginally easier by the hotel, which had invested in bulletproof glass in all windows. He checked the library and noted that his client’s personal staff had already gotten the fire going. Fifty degrees was warm for Washington in March, but compared to the over one-hundred-degree heat his clients had left behind in Riyadh, it probably felt like an icebox.

  He stepped out onto the balcony and looked out over Georgetown’s M Street. An entourage of black limos was turning toward the hotel. It would take seven more minutes to get everyone out of the vehicles, through the elevator, and up to the room. Mac stepped back inside and locked the balcony doors. Quickly, he made his way through the formal living room and media room, checking for any sign of disturbance. The previous night, before Mac had been due to take over from Ryder, their client, Mr. Abboud, had asked Mac to put him through a special ops workout in the personal fitness center because, in his client’s words, he “was at that level of fitness.” Mac had obliged because he’d felt like a workout, but he’d taken great pleasure in kicking the guy’s ass, leaving him to crawl away to shower while pretending he was fine. It had made his day when the client had walked stiffly that morning. But he’d also thought about Delaney. About the way she’d looked at him at the beach when she thought he wasn’t looking, those eyes of hers taking in his abs. Appreciative eyes were great motivation to bust a gut through his workout.

  Some of their military friends had found their way into the bodyguard business, but he couldn’t imagine anything less interesting. A couple of others had landed roles on the Discovery Channel. Great shows, but he had no aspirations to fame. He knew that deep down inside he was still chasing Brock’s dream of being the ultimate SEAL, the ultimate warrior. At some point, he was going to have to think about his own life and what he wanted out of it. Not the work with Eagle, because he loved that. But more broadly.

  Like a wife. And kids. The door opened and his client, his wife, and their two young children entered the suite.

  “Mac, Mac, Mac.” Rahila, a little seven-year-old girl with dense brown curls and wide brown eyes ran toward him. They had written protocols for this. They needed to be friendly, but not so friendly that it was difficult to do their jobs. But she’d wrapped him around her little finger by asking if he could sit in the back of the limo with her and by drawing a picture of him that he’d taped to his security desk.

  “Hello, Rahila,” he said, doing his best to respect their positions. With any other little girl, he would have probably tousled those curls or gotten down to eye level to say hi. But this was his client’s daughter, and he wanted to remain professional.

  She wrapped her arms around his leg as her father came to shake hands. “I apologize, Mac,” he said. “Her friendliness knows no bounds.” He muttered some words to his wife, who grabbed the little girl and took her away into the bedroom.

  “We’ll dine in our room tonight,” the client said as he followed his family into the room before closing the door.

  And Mac envied him that simple luxury. Being able to close the door to the rest of the world and having his family safely with him inside.

  * * *

  Delaney looked at the chain that Mac had installed. She could crack open the door to talk to the guy, but if he was legitimate, he’d never be able to get the bouquet through the gap.

  “How did you get in the building?” she asked.

  “One of your neighbors kindly held the door,” he replied.

  Not comfortable opening the door, she said, “Just leave them outside the door, thank you.” She could wait until he was down the hall, preferably in the elevator or out of sight in the stairwell, and then unlock the seventeen hundred new locks and grab them, taking them straight to the garbage in the hope of avoiding a coughing fit.

  “Sorry, Miss Shapiro, but I need a signature for them.”

  Damn. Was that normal? She tried to think back to the last time she’d been sent flowers, and she was pretty certain she hadn’t been asked to sign. “One second.”

  Her spidey senses had been messed up since Kunduz. She’d been seeing things everywhere that she shouldn’t have read into but had. But this felt wrong.

  “Do you have any I.D.?” she asked to kill time while she grabbed her phone.

  “Normally don’t need any, ma’am.” He sounded almost amused by her question. He probably thought she was some eccentric recluse. “Usually the flowers say it all.”

  Quickly, she googled Lucy’s Floral and found it to be a real shop on Fourth by the Hard Rock. It could all be stupid paranoia on top of coincidence, but something in her gut niggled. And if she refused to accept the delivery, what was the worst that could happen? The bouquet would be returned to the shop, and she could take a cab to retrieve it tomorrow and apologize for her overreaction. She dialed their number as she continued to watch through the peephole.

  “Miss, I have a few other deliveries to make today, and I’m already behind,” the man shouted, while keeping the brim of his cap down.

  “Hello, Lucy’s Floral, how can I help you today?” The woman sounded tired. Delaney glanced at the clock. After six. Wouldn’t the store be closing soon? And why would someone be delivering so late?

  Delaney stepped away from the door and covered the mouthpiece of her phone. “I might be being over-cautious, but there is a man in a brown uniform saying he is delivering from Lucy’s Floral. Could you confirm he is who he says he is, please?”

  She took a step back toward the door, and jumped when the man knocked loudly a second time. “Miss, please.” His tone was frustrated. “I’m gonna have to go if you don’t answer.”

  “That’s odd,” the woman said. “I thought all the deliveries had been done for the day, but I only work late afternoons until closing. What is your name?”

  “Delaney Shapiro.”

  A neighbor down the hall opened his door and shouted something in the delivery man’s direction that she couldn’t make out. As the delivery guy began to turn to look in the neighbor’s direction, everything fell into a weird kind of slow motion.

  At the same time she heard the woman on the end of the line confirm that they had no delivery scheduled for her that day, or any day in the coming week, the delivery guy lifted his chin to address the neighbor.

  It was him.

  The man she’d seen in the car. The man who had followed her to Mac’s apartment.

  Her heart slammed to a stop in her chest and she gasped. As if hearing her through the metal door, he looked straight at the spy hole she was looking through. Stumbling backward, she reached for the wall.

  She should have let Mac do what he did best. Let him figure out if what she’d seen earlier had been a real issue or not. She should have stayed at his place. Her palms began to sweat, and her heart crashed to life again. She refused to be abducted again—or worse. What would Mac do?

  “Hello. Miss, are you okay?” she heard the woman on the other end of the line say.

  She was trapped in this tiny box of an apartment. Think, Delaney, think. With shaking fingers, she hung up the phone.

  The handle on the door turned a half turn so slowly she wou
ldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t been staring at the door intently. He was trying to get inside.

  The locks would hold him for a while. There were so many of them thanks to Mac.

  Delaney quickly dialed three numbers.

  “Nine one one. What’s your emergency?”

  Oh God. This was really happening.

  “Police.” Her voice broke as she said the word, and she forced herself to continue. “A man … he’s trying to break into my apartment. He’s been following me for a—”

  “Can you confirm your address ma’am?”

  Delaney attempted to stay calm despite feeling like she was going to vomit and rattled off the address and apartment number. She focused on the doorknob so hard that she no longer could determine if it was moving or not.

  The sound of a gunshot ricocheted through the hallway and she screamed. She dropped to the floor and crawled toward the kitchen to hide behind the small counter. All she could do was pray it hadn’t been aimed at her neighbor. It felt cowardly to hide but she didn’t know how she’d be able to help. From her spot on the floor, she peered around the counter to look at the door.

  The door handle turned again, and the knob on the inside fell to the floor. Oh, God. He was coming for her.

  “Ma’am, are you okay? Was that a gunshot?”

  “Yes. Yes. Please. Send someone quickly. Malachai MacCarrick has the details of the guy who was following me if anything happens to me. He runs Eagle Securities, he’s…”

  The door rattled as he shook it, and blood rushed to her head, making her vision spin. Keeping the police on the line, she looked around her room. All she could do was delay him getting to her. Give the police time to get to her. Hopefully her neighbors were calling too. The advice Mac had given her before he left about concealment and cover suddenly made sense. She needed to be out of the way of the door. She looked up at the knife block in the kitchen and stood, grabbing the one from there and another from the drawer. More bullets hit the door, leaving rounded dents in the metal. She ran to the bedroom and slammed the door shut before pressing her shoulder up against the dresser to slide it in front of the doorframe.