Dangerous Protector (Aegis Group Book 5)

by Sidney Bristol

  Sure enough, Danny was a couple tables back, shaking his head, while a guy twice his size slapped his shoulders.

  Marco hung back against the wall.

  Danny had known Marco was coming to pick him up. So why hadn’t he called? What sort of game was Danny running? Who did he owe money to?

  “Marco.”

  Fuck.

  Marco turned toward the voice.

  Well, that answered every damn question.

  “Johnny.” Marco held out his hand.

  Johnny “The Indian” Pahe.

  If Johnny had a drop of Native American blood in him, then Marco was a green-skinned, antennae-sporting alien.

  They’d all grown up in the same area surrounding Moab, Utah, which was how Danny and his older brother got involved with Johnny and his guys. The ironic thing was, Marco’s family were all Navajo. When John started wearing the ridiculous get-up a couple years ago, Marco had wanted so badly to bust his ass. But then the shit with Danny’s older brother happened and touching Johnny meant risking the investigation.

  “Haven’t seen you around.” Marco crossed his arms across his chest and turned toward Danny. What the hell was the kid thinking? Johnny was bad news of the drugs and hard time kind. He smiled too much, but it was the smile of a snake in the grass ready to bite.

  “Last I heard you were in the Navy.” Johnny nodded toward Danny. “Look at the kid go.”

  Danny had his tongue stuck out one side of his mouth, lining up a shot. He sank balls, lined up another shot, and systematically cleaned the table.

  “He working for you?” Marco asked. There was no sense in beating around the bush.

  “Danny? No, he doesn’t work for anyone.” Johnny rocked forward on one foot.

  He had on one of those beaded chest plates that lay over his chest under a plaid shirt. The Indian name was all for show. A street name. He’d peddled pot back in school, mixing it with over the counter drugs and called it the Indian Smoke Stick. Landed a dozen kids in the ER. Johnny hadn’t cared. So long as he made a buck.

  Marco’s gaze skipped over the onlookers. Johnny’s people.

  Chances were, Johnny had set up here some weeks ago, planting a few guys to brag about his product, peddle a few drugs. They’d move through before the local dealers got wind of them, but not before Danny bled as many dry as he could.

  The odds were also stacked where Danny was concerned. Marco didn’t doubt his cousin sold what he could, but he wasn’t stupid. He was a smart, slick kid, and he knew better than to get caught. Which meant, as the low man on the pole, he’d taken the fall for someone in Johnny’s crew.

  Marco liked this gig a lot better when he was just picking his cousin up from prison.

  Danny’s game finished in a two-ball flourish. He pumped his fist while his opponent muttered something to his buddies.

  Marco closed the distance, circling the pool table and blocking off Danny’s escape.

  “Cous’.” Danny blinked up at him.

  “Hey—kid, I’m not done.” Danny’s opponent stepped forward.

  “Move, man.” Danny shoved at Marco’s chest.

  “How much he take you for?” Marco asked without looking away from his cousin.

  “Two hundred. The kid’s a hustler.”

  Marco dug into his pocket, peeled off a couple of twenties and laid them on the table.

  “Danny, we need to talk.”

  Danny shoved his hands into his pocket, head down, skulking like the kid he was. Marco stepped back, giving him a way out, and followed in the kid’s wake around to the rear exit and out into an alley lined with more bikes. The sky was just beginning to dim, the air turning cool, the trees over the mountains turning colors.

  “What do you want?” Danny stuck out his lower lip, always the petulant child.

  “I want you to tell your mother you aren’t coming home.” Marco held out his phone.

  “I ain’t calling her, man.” Danny flinched away from the phone.

  “You are the one who agreed to me bringing you home, so you need to tell her. You’re not coming home, are you? You never meant to leave Denver.”

  “I can’t. My parole officer—”

  “They’d let you go home, but you don’t want to. Because your crew is here? Johnny and the others? You’re with them now, aren’t you?” Marco stepped in close, so close he could see the tiny red veins in Danny’s eyes. “Aren’t you?”

  Danny just shook his head.

  Marco wanted to throttle the kid. Pack him up, force him to go home.

  “How long ago did we put Daniel in the ground? Hm?” Marco had watched this same routine, only it’d been Marco’s dad picking up Danny’s older brother. “How long has your brother been dead?”

  “I’m not using. I’m not stupid.” Danny glared back.

  “No, you’re just hustling and working for the same guy who probably sold Daniel his drugs.”

  “Yeah, well, my brother was a dumbass, wasn’t he? He got what he deserved.”

  “What do you deserve, Danny? Or is it D-Dawg now? Wasn’t that what your mom said they were calling you? Shit.”

  “Man, I’m working for my money.”

  “You’re nineteen, Danny. You’re old enough to fuck up the rest of your life, and no one can save you from it. I’ll take you home right now. I’ve got your truck out of the impound, I’ll fill the gas tank and follow you all the way home, but you have to leave right now.”

  “Fuck you. That’s my truck.”

  “No.” Marco shook his head. “It’s still in my dad’s name.”

  “Man, I don’t need you.”

  Danny pushed past Marco, and it took everything in him to not snatch the kid back.

  Watching Daniel kill himself had been bad, but they’d done everything they could. Interventions. Family sit-downs. Hell, Marco had tied Daniel up in the barn once to get him to come down off his high and keep from hurting himself, but nothing worked. This time…this time they had to let Danny hit rock bottom. Realize what he was doing. And then…maybe then he’d change. But they couldn’t force it.

  Marco clenched his hands into fists, closed his eyes and slowly exhaled.

  He couldn’t force Danny to choose a better life. It was in the kid’s hands now.

  The bar was clogged full of more people than when he’d left. Danny and the rest of his crew were gone.

  Marco strode across the bar, but he only made it a dozen or so paces before he stopped in his tracks.

  A woman in tiny black shorts and a red bustier with some sort of skirt-tail-thing slammed back a shot at the bar. Some of the baddest motherfuckers were clustered around her. He didn’t need more than a glance at their tattoos to place them in the worst gangs possible.

  She was here.

  Of course she was here.

  It was just the way his damn night was going.

  Scott jabbed at the keyboard, anger simmering low in his stomach.

  How much longer was he going to get jerked around like this? He’d done his part, now the corporate goons were supposed to back off. He’d let the coast clear and then—then Brat would be his to deal with. Eliminate. Finally!

  Her name was Fiona now.

  Scott only remembered her handle.

  b4dbr47.

  BadBrat in non-leet speak.

  Everyone had called her Brat back then. She’d been one of the lemmings, the idealistic children staged to take the fall.

  Instead, she’d taken them down.

  The bitch.

  It’d taken a long time to find her after he’d emerged. Two years in hiding, watching his back, wondering if the feds were coming after him. Two years for her to burrow into the shithole that was this new life.

  Did she even hack anymore?

  Scott couldn’t find Brat’s trail anywhere.

  He’d only found her again by chance. Because that stupid ass who recruited her had a thing for leggy teenage girls and hadn’t been shy about sharing her pictures with the rest of them.
Scott had that much to go off. He’d tracked her from one alias to another, always years behind her, but he was patient. By his estimation, she’d been moved a couple times until she landed here. In Denver. Where she led a quiet little existence.

  Scott had found her because of a clerical error. The wrong form sent to the wrong address. Once he had her trail, it’d still taken months of leg work to find her, and months more to land a suitable fall gig while he got this identity in order.

  His revenge would be so sweet. And Good Global would get the blame for her death.

  It would serve his boss, Lila, right for all the yanking him around.

  The gig was supposed to be over. Done with. He should be retreating, regrouping and waiting for the perfect moment to swoop in when Brat would be the least aware. He’d have her then. Maybe he wouldn’t shoot her immediately. Maybe he’d make her suffer, just as he had for years in squalor and filth, watching over his shoulder.

  His work cell rang. The one for the job.

  Scott scowled at it.

  What the fuck did they want now?

  “Yes?” He didn’t bother with pleasantries. They all knew what was happening.

  “We need the equipment.” The voice on the other end of the line was clipped. Professional. Fucking Lila.

  “Well, too bad. We talked about this. That shit is gone. I’m not getting it back.”

  “You will get it back.”

  “Or else?”

  “It’s come to our knowledge that there are people who’d like to find you…”

  Scott swallowed.

  There were a lot of people who wanted to find him. She’d have to be more specific. Were they looking for Scott? Or Nova? She only knew the first name, but he still had plenty of enemies. Back in the day, when they’d had their ring, he and the guys had taken thousands, maybe even millions between them. His gigs were smaller now, but people still didn’t like it when you took their money.

  And then there were the bodies…

  “Be reasonable.” Scott sat forward. “When we discussed this job and how to get the information we—”

  “Plans have changed. Retrieve the equipment.”

  “That’s—no. I can’t do that.” In an effort to cut ties, to eliminate suspicion, he’d made the break-up with Brat very permanent.

  “Figure out how.”

  The call cut off.

  The bitch had hung up on him.

  Scott tossed the phone across the room onto the sofa bed. He couldn’t afford to break another one.

  Fucking Brat.

  This was all her fault.

  He pushed to his feet, striding across the studio apartment he’d rented for this job. Accessing Brat’s condo was not an option. At least not during the day, and even then, he had to be careful. He’d seen firsthand the kind of security she ran there, and she was paranoid. He’d built a way in and out, but that was risky. He hadn’t had the chance to test his access. She knew she was still in danger, only she had no idea he’d laid in bed next to her, dreaming about choking the life from her.

  She’d changed the codes. She’d told him as much in that same, frozen, emotionless way she did everything. Nothing touched that bitch.

  Well, Scott would have to figure out a way in. Pretending to make up would do no good. He’d laid it on too thick with the break-up act because he’d thought this was over. That soon he’d have her wriggling on a hook for his enjoyment.

  Damn her!

  But maybe that was it.

  If she was gone, if she were dead, he could get into the apartment and retrieve their stupid equipment before the cops even knew there was a body.

  No, no, that was too risky. He couldn’t cut it too close. After all, he was still wanted by the FBI, thanks to Brat.

  He’d have to go through the front door, right under her nose.

  Fiona wiped her chin and grinned as the alcohol hit her system.

  This was exactly where she shouldn’t be, and where she wanted to be.

  “How about another shot, pretty lady?” The man to her right stared at her, his lids lowered. She couldn’t see his mouth moving through his whiskers.

  “I don’t—”

  One hand, and then another, gripped the bar on either side of her and a hot breath of air slid up her neck.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were here, sweetheart?” His voice was lower, rougher than before.

  She hadn’t been sure he would still be at the bar. Hell, he’d told her to stay away. And yet—here they were.

  Fiona turned in the cage of his arms and leaned back against the bar.

  The clothes were still the same. His hair was a bit messier. And yet, he seemed more…dangerous now.

  “I didn’t know if you were done doing…whatever you were doing.” She shouldn’t smile at him. That was the alcohol dictating reaction, and yet she wanted to hold onto those arms, curl into him and smile.

  “Hey buddy, we’re doing shots, ya mind?” Whiskers leaned closer.

  “Fuck off, grandpa,” her bad-boy biker said, without taking his eyes off her. “You’re coming with me.”

  She managed to set her shot glass back on the bar before he pulled her away from it to an empty table. There were a dozen logical reasons why she should go home right now, and yet she didn’t want to. For one night, she didn’t want to be boring. She didn’t want to color inside the lines. She wanted to be…free. Alive. Excitement bubbled in her veins, buoying her up so she barely felt the ground beneath her feet. She wanted to be herself. Her real self.

  “What are you doing here?” He leaned in close, so close that if she took a really deep breath their bodies would brush.

  “I’m at a bar.”

  “Fiona—this is not the kind of bar a nice girl like you should be at alone.”

  “I’m not alone, now, am I?”

  “You don’t even know my name.”

  “Marco Benally.”

  “You—what?” He frowned at her.

  “Facebook phone look-up. You have it enabled.”

  “Fucking hell.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “You know those guys you were doing shots with?”

  “No.” This was a bar.

  “That one guy? With the beard? You see the tattoo on his forearm? You know what that means?”

  “No…”

  “He’s done time. Half of those are prison tats. The forearm one? It means he’s—”

  “I don’t want to know.” She squeezed her eyes shut. Right. Reality sucked. If she knew… If she had any idea… She’d want to do something about it. And doing things was what had landed her here in the first place, in a shell of a life with no joy.

  “Sweetheart—”

  “Stop calling me that.” Okay, she’d made a mistake. A bad one, and now she’d shamble her happy ass back to the bus stop and go home with her tail between her legs. Back to her boring little bubble where she was safe.

  “Fiona—”

  “Just stop. I’m going home. Happy?”

  “Fiona—stop.” He grasped her by the shoulders and pulled her in until they were face to face. She stared up at him, refusing to look away. His voice gentled, though his grip was firm. “Think next time, okay? You’re with me now. Have a drink.”

  He let go of her and leaned an arm on the tall table.

  The room was starting to spin a bit. Fiona slid onto the stool while Marco waved down a waitress. He didn’t even ask her what she wanted, just ordered. Fiona couldn’t decide if that irritated her or if she liked it. Marco was different from the men she dated and the people in her circles. He was…hard worn by life, and so far he’d won. He’d chew her up and spit her out. Well, this version of her at least.

  “What are you doing here, anyway?” He leaned on the table, hands clasped in front of him, his gaze on her.

  “It’s a Friday night. Why not go out?” She lifted her shoulders.

  “This isn’t exactly the place a pretty girl goes to have a good time.” He tipped his chin down, his stare
telling her he didn’t believe her line of bull.

  He’d called her pretty. That shouldn’t matter, but most people didn’t even see her, let alone register that she might be pretty.

  “I wanted to do something different.”

  “A dirty bar is different?”

  She shrugged again.

  Marco straightened and accepted two beers from the waitress, but didn’t lose focus on her. He took a sip, then pushed his glass away, the better to lean into her personal space.

  “What are you really doing, sweetheart?” He winced. “Sorry. My bad.”

  “Forget it.” It wasn’t the name that grated it was…everything else. Her life. Her choices. They chafed. “You’re right. Coming here was stupid.”

  “Coming here alone wasn’t the best idea. I didn’t say it was stupid.”

  She leveled her own glare at him.

  “Okay, it’s stupid.” He reached across and took her hand. “But you’re here. So now what?”

  “I don’t…”

  He lifted her knuckles to his lips and pressed a kiss to each one. Her brain shorted out somewhere between the first and second brush of his mouth.

  That.

  That was what she wanted.

  To feel alive.

  “Fiona, what do you want?” His voice was almost lost in the crowd and music.

  “You. I want, you.”

  “Come and get me, sweetheart.”

  3.

  Fiona’s hands shook so badly she could barely hold onto her keys. Marco had his palms braced on the door, blocking out the light, pressing in behind her. Her whole body vibrated from the Harley ride. She was still warm from his touch. She could still feel of him pressed against her between her legs.

  He bent his head, nuzzling the side of her neck.

  Besides being on the bike, he hadn’t yet touched her.

  Yet.

  As soon as she got these damn keys sorted though…

  Ah-ha!

  She jammed her key into the deadbolt and twisted it free. She shoved the door open with one hand and punched the alarm code with the other.

  The system emitted a double-beep the same moment Marco’s hands wrapped around her arms. He kicked the door shut and turned her toward him. She pressed her back against the wall and stared up at him.