Secret Protector

by Ann Voss Peterson

  Nothing.

  No ringing, no dial tone, nothing—only static and the sound of her pulse drumming in her ears. She stared at the little screen. No service.

  It couldn’t be a coincidence. Someone was blocking the signal. They had to be.

  Sherry?

  She glanced out the window again, focusing on Chet’s still form, then skimming the garden’s bushes and wind-tossed trees.

  She couldn’t see anyone outside, but that didn’t mean Sherry wasn’t there. Natalie thought about yesterday, the bullet slamming into the church, just missing her head.

  Was that what happened to Chet? Had he been shot? And if she stepped outside, if she made a run for it, what would stop her from being gunned down?

  She moved away from the window. If Gray were here, that was the first thing he’d tell her. Stay away from windows. A thought shuddered into her mind.

  If Gray were here, would he be the one lying out in the garden?

  A strangled sound whimpered deep in her throat. She couldn’t think that way. She had to make a plan. And in order to do that, she had to calm down.

  She forced herself to breathe. In and out. In and out. She hadn’t heard shots fired. She’d heard banging and other wind sounds, but no shots. Unless the sound had been suppressed in some way.

  She didn’t know what to do, but she didn’t want to stay here and wait to die. Maybe she could risk running for it. Maybe she could get away. She didn’t have to walk out the front door.

  She grew up on this estate. She knew every inch of these gardens. Maybe she could go out the side door, cut through the shade and rose gardens and make it to the mansion to call for help before Sherry knew she was gone.

  She grabbed her jacket. If her heart beat any harder, it would burst through her rib cage. She moved through the dinette and reached the side door. The thin, white curtain stretched over the glass inset from top to bottom, letting in light but obscuring the view. She hooked the fabric with a trembling finger and did her best to peer through the space. She could see nothing but bushes and trees tossing in the wind. The frying-pan size leaves of a hosta lily rocked back and forth like a small child soothing itself to sleep.

  Here goes nothing.

  She released the curtain and grabbed the doorknob. One, two, three. She scooped in a deep breath, twisted the knob and yanked.

  The door didn’t budge.

  She yanked again. No movement.

  Something crashed toward the back of the house.

  A scream started to fill her throat. She choked it back along with a breath…a scent. She’d been an artist too long not to know that smell anywhere.

  Paint thinner. And something else.

  Smoke.

  She pulled at the door, throwing her full weight behind the yank. No good.

  “Oh, my God. Oh, my God.”

  It was only a smell, but it gained strength fast. She had to get out of here. She pushed away from the blocked door. Reaching the living room, she froze.

  What should she do?

  Sherry could still be in the front. Waiting.

  As if confirming her fears, a loud crash hit the front door. Not gunfire, something heavy thrown against the house.

  Then she heard the crackle. Smoke drifted through the crack under the door.

  The front of her house was on fire.

  She turned in the direction of the bedrooms. The smoke was building right in front of her eyes, starting as a slight haze then getting thicker, denser with each step she took.

  The fire alarm in the bedroom hall shrieked to life. A few seconds later, the living room unit joined in.

  She couldn’t get out the front door or the side, and if someone was in front of her house, running into the garage wouldn’t get her very far, either.

  The back of the house was her best bet. She could escape through the windows and disappear into the thick gardens and cove of evergreen trees.

  The smoke grew thicker, building impossibly fast. She reached out a hand and dragged her fingertips along the wall to guide her way. By the time she reached her studio, her eyes stung and tears soaked her cheeks.

  She twisted the knob and gave the door a shove. It flew open. A hot whoosh hit her full in the face. She threw her arms up, trying to shield her eyes.

  Instead of finding a way out, she’d walked right into another raging fire.

  Blinking her eyes, she tried to look for the window, for a way out. Instead, all she saw were the bright flames and curling canvases as the remaining paintings of her memories burned.

  GRAY TURNED DOWN THE tree-lined street leading to the Kendall mansion and Natalie’s cottage, pressing down harder on the accelerator. Something was wrong; he could feel it. Why had he wasted valuable time questioning his instincts? Why had it taken him so long to decide to check on Natalie?

  He swung the wheel, shooting for the driveway of the Kendall Estate. His tires screeched. The back end fishtailed, nearly hitting the curb. By some miracle, he made the turn. He gunned the engine again, swerving down the narrow twisty road winding through the gardens.

  The security guards who had been posted on the property last night were gone today. When Gray had left, he hadn’t thought that would be a problem. He’d thought that as long as he wasn’t around, Natalie wasn’t in danger. But that was before Ash had learned Sherry couldn’t be the shooter. Now he wished those guards were here. Now he wouldn’t feel comfortable unless he had an army.

  The gray stone mansion peered down at him, three stories high. He drove past. No one was home, the entire family still at the hotel getting ready for their dinner and gift opening celebration. Gray prayed that was where Natalie had gone, as well. That his inability to reach Chet was due to overloaded downtown cell phone usage. But he suspected it wasn’t that simple.

  He continued past the pool house and followed the curving drive into the Kendall Estate’s twenty acres of gardens.

  A sharp pop split the air. Cracks spiderwebbed across his windshield.

  His heart slammed in his chest. He’d been right. There was something wrong. Very wrong. He bit out a curse and kept driving. He couldn’t see the cottage. Not yet. He had two more bends to navigate.

  He swerved around the first. Borderline too fast. A second shot hit, jarring through the car. The end swung wide. The sickening crunch of metal and the shattering of glass filled his ears and rattled through his brain. He jerked forward against his seat belt, then slammed back against the seat. The car slid to a stop against the broad trunk of an old oak.

  He pulled in breath after breath. He was okay. He could still move. At least nothing had hit the front end. At least the air bag hadn’t gone off and trapped him in the car for precious seconds.

  He unhitched his seat belt and drew his weapon. The side of the car closest to the cover of trees and other vegetation bent inward toward him. He reached across and tried to open it anyway, but it wouldn’t budge.

  He’d have to take the hard way.

  He grasped the driver’s door latch. Drawing in a deep breath as if ready to plunge under water, he pulled. At the same time, he put his weight behind the push.

  The door swung open and he went straight to the ground. Holding his pistol in front of him, he crawled on his belly.

  Another shot exploded near him. A bullet pinged off the pavement a foot away.

  He kept moving the way he’d been trained. He had no choice. Stop and he was dead.

  He made it to the other side of the car and dived into a cluster of bushes.

  Branches scratched at his face and hands. Damn. Roses. Their thorns ripped into the leather of his jacket.

  He tuned out the needlelike pricks and squinted in the wind. Judging from the trajectory of the gunfire, the shooter was somewhere between the mansion and Natalie’s cottage, probably on the roof of the pool house.

  He pulled out his cell phone. Since he hadn’t realized his hunch was correct until turning onto the road leading to the estate, he hadn’t tried to reach anyone oth
er than Chet and Natalie. Now he wished he’d called 911 right away.

  He punched in the three digits. No signal.

  Damn. Whoever this shooter was, he was serious enough to have used a mobile cell phone jammer to interfere with reception. Unfortunately that meant Chet and Natalie could still be in the cottage and the jammer was preventing calls from going out and coming in.

  He slipped the phone back into his pocket, wiped his sweaty right palm on his pants, then adjusted his grip on his gun. What he wouldn’t give for an assault rifle about now. A 9mm Glock was nothing against the hardware this guy had. Probably the rifle he’d used to fire on the wedding and Gray’s apartment.

  He scanned the area, looking for areas of vegetation he could use for cover. A scent reached him, the unmistakable smell of smoke riding on the wind.

  No, no, no, no.

  He squinted through the gardens in the direction of the cottage. From here he could only see one corner of the little house peeking through the trees. But along the tiny snatch of roofline was a white haze.

  The cottage was on fire.

  He detached himself from the rosebush. Keeping low, he half ran, half crawled through the gardens. He had to reach the cottage. It didn’t take much imagination to guess the gunman’s plan. Jam the phone signal and smoke Natalie and Chet into the open. Shoot them when they tried to escape the fire.

  He prayed he wasn’t too late to stop that from happening.

  He moved into a grove of evergreen trees. Here the cover was thick enough for him to risk rising to his feet. He moved into a sprint. Wind howled through the trees, the branches’ sway camouflaging his dash. Reaching the edge of the trees, he hunkered down behind a hedge that bordered the patch of yard and swooping lines of garden and cobblestone patio that flanked the cottage.

  He could see the smoke clearly now. Flames rose from the main entrance and licked outside the front door. Other wisps of gray seemed to be issuing from a broken pane on the side of the structure before swirling away in a squall. If he was judging the inside floor plan correctly, that set of windows belonged to the studio.

  A sound came from behind him. He wasn’t sure how he noticed it above the wind or why it stood out in his mind. But he’d been trained to react to threats, to depend on instinct and muscle memory.

  He spun around, hands up.

  A man lunged toward him, a small branch in his hands. Only about a foot and a half long and an inch in diameter, the stick didn’t look like much, but Gray knew in the right hands, even a small, simple weapon like that could be deadly.

  The man struck Gray across the stomach in a vicious circular motion. At the same time, he shifted his weight, putting the full force of it behind the blow.

  Gray grunted, the breath whooshing from his lungs. His chin jutted forward in an involuntary movement. He brought his hands up, trying to block what he knew would come next.

  Still gripping with both hands, the man jabbed upward with the end of the stick, trying to drive it into Gray’s neck, trying to kill him.

  Gray brought his arm around, blocking the blow. The stick’s point raked the side of his hand, drawing blood.

  The man recovered quickly, trying to smash Gray across the face with the end of the stick.

  Pain ripped across Gray’s cheekbone. He staggered back, struggling to stay on his feet.

  The attacker tried for a second blow, this time going for Gray’s throat. Another shot aiming to render him unconscious or dead.

  Gray was ready this time. He grabbed the stick. Twisting it with his right hand, he brought his left elbow hard into the guy’s temple.

  The blow jarred through his arm. Still gripping the stick, he struck again, then brought his knee up.

  The man angled his body to the side, blocking the attack. He released the stick and came at Gray with an uppercut to the jaw.

  The strike clanged through Gray’s head. He counterstruck wildly, missing the target.

  The attacker landed another bash to the side of his head.

  Who was this guy? He was too young to be the murderer of Natalie’s parents. He was too trained to be a civilian. The only thing clear was that he was well versed in hand-to-hand combat. Gray had to end this before the guy ended him.

  Gray seized the man’s left arm with his right hand. Digging his fingers into the canvas jacket, he pulled downward. At the same time, he brought his right hand up, striking him under the chin with the heel of his hand. He gave a backward kick with his rigid left leg, throwing the guy to the ground.

  He landed on his side, gasping for breath.

  Twisting his arm behind his back, Gray flipped him to his stomach and pinned him facedown in the evergreen needles and mulch. “Who are you?”

  The guy sputtered and said nothing. He turned his head to the side, breathing heavily.

  Gray stared at him. That face. He’d seen that face before. Not in real life, though. In a photograph. “You’re Natalie’s brother.”

  Again, the man remained silent.

  “You’re the news reporter. The third oldest. The one who’s been overseas.” Gray searched his memory for the name. “Thad, isn’t it?”

  “What the hell’s going on here?”

  Gray wished he could answer that one. He was still trying to put it together, and with his head still ringing from Thad’s blows, thinking wasn’t the easiest of tasks. He wiped the side of his face. His fingers came back coated with blood. “Man, where did you learn to fight like that?”

  “Let me up.”

  Gray wasn’t sure that was a good idea. Not until he and Thad reached an understanding. “That wasn’t you shooting, was it?”

  “It was you.”

  “No. I am Natalie’s…I was Natalie’s bodyguard.”

  “You’re Gray.”

  He squinted down at the man. From everything Natalie said, the family had never gotten a hold of her third brother. The most they’d been able to do was leave a message. He wasn’t sure how that added up to Thad knowing his name, but for now he’d just have to chalk it up to being part of a lot of things that weren’t adding up about Thad. “Yes, I’m Gray Scott.”

  “Let me up, Gray, or I’ll go back to trying to kill you.”

  Gray released his arm and took his weight off Thad’s back. He held out a hand to help Natalie’s brother to his feet.

  Thad ignored the offer. He brushed evergreen needles and other debris from his face and clothing. “Where’s Natalie?”

  “I don’t know. Dear God, she could be in the house.” His own words sounded hollow and hopeless in his ears. “I have to get in there. I have to find her and get her out.”

  Thad narrowed his eyes, and Gray got the feeling he was being sized up. “You special forces?”

  “Former SEAL.”

  “Sweet.”

  “You?”

  “Reporter.”

  “Bull. No reporter fights like that.”

  Thad looked him straight in the eye. “I’m a foreign correspondent. I know how to defend myself.”

  Gray still didn’t quite buy it, but they had no time to argue details. It would be tough to save Natalie and take down a gunman armed with an assault rifle all on his own. But with two of them, maybe they could be successful.

  They had to be successful.

  He scanned Thad’s sides, looking for the bulge of a holster. “Are you armed?”

  “If I was armed, do you think I’d attack you with nothing but a twig?”

  Good point. “Here.” Gray pulled the Glock from his holster and handed it butt first to Thad.

  “You have another?”

  “No.” He wished he did.

  “Sure you don’t want it?”

  “You’ll need it more.”

  Thad took the weapon, inspecting it as if he knew what he was doing. “How many in the clip?”

  “Fifteen.” There were clips that held more rounds, but they made a weapon heavy, awkward. Now Gray wished he’d accepted that trade-off. It would be nice to have twic
e as many bullets to work with. “Can you draw his fire? Give me a chance to get inside the house? Maybe give the neighbors enough reason to worry and call the cops?”

  Thad nodded. “I’ll do you one better. You save my sister, and I’ll make sure the bastard comes nowhere near you.”

  Thad was a good fighter, but even so, Gray had his doubts. And if Thad was hurt in this, or killed…Gray shook his head. “I can’t let you do that.”

  “What do you mean, let me? I thought we were working together in this. I don’t need you to protect me. I need you to save my sister.”

  He was right. Gray hadn’t trusted Jimbo to do his job. Instead he’d tried to watch out for him, take care of him. As if he was the only one responsible. The only one who could do his duty and everyone else’s.

  He’d gone to the opposite extreme with Natalie. As soon as it seemed there was a conflict, he’d abandoned her altogether and left her with another bodyguard. As if he had to be responsible for everything or nothing, everyone or no one. As if that was the choice before him.

  He focused on Thad. “You sure you can handle this?”

  Natalie’s brother stared back. He didn’t look that much like his sister. He more closely resembled his brothers Devin and Ash. But similar features or no, he had that same Kendall determination Gray had witnessed shining in Natalie’s eyes. “I can handle this,” he said. “Trust me.”

  Gray nodded. He would. He did.

  “Save my little sister. Do what it takes.”

  “I’ll lay down my life for her,” Gray whispered into the wind, but Thad was already gone.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Gray gave Thad a couple of seconds head start before he made his move. From here, he could hear the smoke alarms wail from inside the house. Gunfire erupted from the area near the swimming pool. Reports cracked out over the whistle of the wind, the flat pop of the pistol and the deeper, rounder timbre of the rifle.

  Now.

  Gray scooped in a deep breath and ran. As he emerged from cover, he half expected to hear bullets breaking the sound barrier around him, half expected to feel lead plowing into his back. He shoved the feelings aside. He had to concentrate on the mission. He had to focus on saving Natalie. And to do that, he first had to get into the cottage.