Black Light: Rescued

by Livia Grant

  Khloe wiggled in his arms. He knew she was going to try to pull it together, but he knew it would be sheer hell for her trying to walk out there and pretend nothing had happened. She was an amazing actress, but he didn't think she could pull it off.

  Instead, he would play the role of overprotective guard. "I think that's a good idea. As much as I love seeing her on the back of the bike, she's too tired for that right now. I'll leave the bike here. Bring the SUV around. Do you have a key to her Malibu house?"

  "Yeah. I have a key to everything."

  The men's eyes locked, recognizing Trevor had just admitted he was one of the few people on the planet who had access to all of the locations where the actress they protected had been threatened. It was also in that moment that Ryder knew in his gut that the guard was innocent. He'd trusted that inner voice dozens of times in more dangerous situations than this.

  "That's good. We'll stop and pick up clothes and supplies and then head back out to the safe house." Trevor had turned and was at the door when Ryder added, "Pack yourself a bag too. I'll need your help watching our six and I want to run through all of the evidence with you and get your input."

  The tall man nodded slightly, his only acknowledgment of Ryder's official offer of a truce.

  "Let's go home, baby."

  The news vans lined the street in front of Khloe's beachfront home, making the few photographers who had been outside the studio gate look insignificant. Their driver, Michael, slowed to avoid hitting people brave enough to approach the moving SUV. Ryder was grateful for the tinted windows, hiding the three occupants in the back seat as shouts of Khloe's name could easily be heard.

  There was no way he was going to subject her to this throng, but that wasn't the only reason he wouldn't be getting out of the luxury car.

  The last thing we need is for me to have my face plastered all over the media.

  Artel Volvo's hired guns would find him in a hot minute. Uncharacteristic guilt gnawed at him as he remembered he could be doing more harm than good with his presence. He felt trapped. An almost desperation to keep the slip of a woman next to him safe warred with knowing that despite his unique skill set, he probably should stay as far away from her as possible.

  Her stalker was a boy scout compared to the likes of the Russian Bratva.

  "Let's get inside the gate and then, McLean, I'd like you to go in and grab what she needs. I'll wait in the car with Khloe."

  She protested. "I don't understand why we can't just stay here? They aren't stupid enough to go past the locked gate."

  "You mean like they wouldn't go into your locked New York apartment or VIP trailer?"

  Her eyes widened before agreeing. "Fine, but why can't I at least go in and pack my own bag?"

  Against his better judgment, he compromised. "Fine, have the driver pull into the garage. We can close the door and never be seen by the photographers."

  McLean answered, "The garage is detached. We'd have to make a run for it. It's no big deal."

  Fuck, he felt trapped. "Fine, you two run in and grab what she needs, but don't be in there too long. I need to go see someone who's gonna help us with the investigation."

  Khloe grabbed his hand, ready to pull him along. "You can come in."

  Uncharacteristic anxiety helped him yank his hand back. "No, I can't."

  Confusion clouded her gaze. "But..."

  He tried to reassure her by cupping her face as he replied. "I can't explain now, Princess. Just know that I can't have my picture splashed around on social media or TV."

  If anything, she looked more confused, but McLean seemed to accept his explanation. "You stay here. We'll be back in ten minutes."

  Ryder bit his tongue as Trevor stepped out and then reached back to take Khloe's hand to escort her inside. Only once they had disappeared did it dawn on him that they could be walking into a trap. The stalker had entered two private locations of hers already. What if he was waiting inside for them now and she was in danger?

  With each minute that ticked by, he got more anxious. He felt neutered and he hated it. He was the one who was always in control, yet he sat trapped in a car in Malibu, California, unable to get out without putting his picture into circulation.

  He had just sent a text to Trevor's phone when he saw them exiting the front door. Nothing looked amiss. He exhaled the breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

  Trevor was schlepping a huge roller suitcase behind him and went to the back hatch door to secure the load before hopping back in the vehicle. Khloe was sandwiched between the men again.

  "Everything okay in there?" he asked when they'd gotten in, forcing his usual calm into his voice.

  "Yeah, fine, but Khloe packed heavy for the trip to D.C. tomorrow. If you're sticking around, we should contact Ricky to have him get you on the same flight as us tomorrow. He flew out a day in advance to make sure everything is ready at that end."

  Ryder's anxiety intensified. "Who the hell is Ricky and why are you going to D.C.?"

  The Volkovs may not know who he was or exactly which organization he worked for, but it didn't take a rocket scientist for them to figure out he'd been working for an American agency. Washington would be brimming with eyes, looking for him in hopes of receiving a sliver of the big bounty on Ryder's head.

  Things were going from bad to worse.

  Unaware of his internal struggle, Khloe rattled on, excited she was to take her turn on the red carpet again–yet another place an active duty undercover agent could never go.

  "...since Dirty Business was set in D.C." She turned to him then, a shy, almost wary expression in her eyes. "I thought maybe we could go visit Jaxson, Chase and Emma."

  She'd left any reference to Black Light out, of course, but he knew exactly what she meant. An idea took hold. He'd have to give Davidson a call.

  Ryder looked over Khloe's head to the taller guard on her other side. The men exchanged a knowing look as Ryder explained. "Don't worry about my flight. I'll probably fly separate and meet you there."

  She was a smart cookie. "But we haven't even told you when the flight was yet. How could you know you couldn't take it?"

  In that moment, he almost came clean. He hadn't thought this through. A deep sadness formed in the pit of his stomach as he faced reality head on.

  There was no way he could form any sort of relationship with Khloe Monroe. Not with the enemies he'd made in his lifetime. If it wasn't the Volkovs, it would be any number of other equally horrific criminals, more than happy to fuck with someone he cared about. It was why most agents stayed single. Why they didn't form attachments.

  Ryder Helms was a time bomb. The only question was when, not if, his dangerous career would blow up, potentially taking out the woman looking at him expectantly. The woman he finally admitted to himself he cared deeply for. She'd wormed her way past his defenses somehow.

  His instincts had been right. He should have turned Davidson down when he'd asked him to help with Khloe's security. If the petite woman had been hurt by his disappearance in February after only three hours together, how would she take his ultimate desertion once they caught her stalker?

  He needed her to stop looking at him with those puppy-dog eyes of hers.

  He needed to hold her.

  Ryder scooped her tiny body into his arms, pulling her to sit in his lap as the driver picked up speed as they merged on the highway headed north. He hugged her so tight she mewed, safe for the moment in the cocoon of his arms.

  McLean hadn't taken his eyes off the couple, watching like a trained observer. Ryder knew he was putting things together on his own, and while it galled him to acknowledge it, he was grateful Khloe had the guard in her life. She'd need Trevor more than ever after Ryder left.

  Only after he'd swallowed sufficiently to get rid of the lump that had formed in his throat did he speak.

  "When we get to the cabin, let’s go through the evidence first, McLean. Then I'm going to see an old friend who can help us dig in and find w
ho's behind this shit."

  Khloe hugged him tighter. "Can I go with you?"

  "No, baby. You need to take a shower and then rest. Before I leave, I want you to make a list of all of your favorite foods. The ones you've been avoiding. And then a list of foods you allow yourself to eat. We're gonna tackle this eating thing together."

  She tried to push away, but he was too strong. "You can't tell me..."

  "The hell I can't. I'm in charge, remember?"

  It dawned on him that any progress he made with getting her to embrace eating again would fly out the window the day he left her again. He pushed the guilt aside, refusing to think long-term.

  He'd been shot, beaten, and pushed out of moving vehicles in his illustrious career, but he'd never regretted his choice in professions until that moment. His heart hurt with a foreign pain as Khloe hugged him tighter just before falling asleep in his arms.

  So this is what love feels like.

  Chapter 17

  Ryder parallel parked the SUV between two pieces of shit cars that lined the run-down street in the seediest part of town. He'd known his best friend from ages ten to twenty-two had fallen on hard times in the last few years, but seeing how far he'd fallen was yet another harsh blow to Ryder's normally aloof conscience.

  He sat in the car, analyzing his options. Walking up the uneven sidewalk and into the tiny, rundown house turned business would be opening a can of worms he wasn't sure he was ready for–emotionally or physically. It had been almost four years since the old friends had seen each other. It felt like a lifetime ago, and yet he suspected their reunion would be worse for Axel. Seeing Ryder would remind him of better times. Times he could never regain.

  "Don't be such a pussy, Helms," he spoke out loud to the empty vehicle.

  He grabbed his duffle and got out into the waning sun, starting up the path before he could change his mind.

  A cheap metal sign labeled iSpy Investigations hung in the front door window, confirming he was at the right address. They'd come up with the stupid name as kids, planning even then to go undercover for hidden answers as their life's work. The two friends had taken very different paths to that end; Ryder traveling the globe mixing with the world's most dangerous crime families–Axel stuck in their old hometown, taking grainy pictures of husbands cheating on their wives.

  He shoved down his sadness at the thought, knowing a deteriorating career wasn't the worst thing that had happened to his friend. He pushed the button for the doorbell, hearing a distant buzz, ensuring the bell was working. Several minutes passed with no answer, so he pressed again, holding the buzzer longer.

  It was Friday night. Axel could be in the bag by now down at The Office. There was no fucking way he'd step foot in the watering hole turned clubhouse. Before he gave up, Ryder walked through the mostly dead yard to stand at a dirty window, cupping his hands over his eyes to look inside. The flickering light of a playing TV bounced off the dark walls, demanding further investigation.

  He was about to turn to retrace his steps to the door when the click of a weapon cocking behind him made him freeze. Instinctively, he threw his hands up in the universal show of submission.

  "Who the fuck are you, and what the hell are you doing snooping around here?" A hint of Axel's Mexican heritage mingled with the slur of a man who'd been drinking.

  "Some kinda welcome, Square." Ryder purposefully chose his childhood nickname for Axel Alvarez–A squared–not only because he knew it bugged the shit out of the man who had groaned, but because it reminded them both of their unbreakable childhood bond.

  To the rest of the world, he was just plain Axe.

  Ryder turned slowly, unsure what he'd find behind him. It was worse than he'd feared. The men were only one year apart, yet Axe looked like an old man. His once jet-black hair was now a long mass of silver and grey, matted together with his out-of control grey beard. Deep crevices left behind by years of worry and anguish were now a permanent fixture on the brown-skinned man's face. Despite the smile that crept to Axe's mouth, a profound sadness permeated the air surrounding them, blanketing Ryder in anger.

  "Ryder? Is that really you?"

  "I was gonna ask you the same damn thing." He stopped short of criticizing his friend's appearance. If anyone in the world deserved to fall apart, it was Axe. Still, Ryder had held out hope his strong friend would have recovered by now.

  Does anyone ever recover from the hell he's been through?

  His friend lunged forward, pulling Ryder into a man-hug while asking, "What the hell are you doing here? I pictured you in some far off shit-hole of a country stirring up trouble."

  Axe's assessment wasn't far from the truth.

  "That was last week. Now I'm here trying to stir up trouble instead."

  Axel'd uncocked his revolver, shoving it into the waistband of his too-big shorts. The men were the same height at just under six-foot, but a very fit Ryder had forty pounds on the guy. Not unlike Khloe, the dude was wasting away, although he knew the underlying reasons for not eating were as different from the actress's as they could be.

  "Well, you gonna invite me in or am I gonna have to stand out here with your dead bushes?"

  Axe hesitated, no doubt not wanting to invite his old friend in to see how far he'd fallen in life. Well fuck that shit. It was time Axe Alvarez joined the living again.

  The men walked back to the front door. For a second, Ryder worried he'd be turned away, but Axe reluctantly pushed through the screen door, holding it open for his old friend.

  A stale odor saturated the air. It was the perfect scent to accompany the deteriorated-looking occupant and possessions that lived there. Stopping shy of being declared a hovel, the space was appalling. Old wrappers from past carryouts mingled with dirty clothes, heaped wherever the wearer had shed them. A thin sheen of dust covered anything that wasn't used regularly, telling a tale of long-term neglect.

  His friend cleared a place to sit in one of the few comfortable looking chairs in the living room. Ryder sat first, with Axe taking a seat in the worn recliner that looked like it doubled as his bed, based on the pillow and blanket in a basket next to the seat.

  He scanned the space before locking eyes with his friend and hitting the elephant in the room head on. "I love what you've done with the place."

  "Fuck you." Ryder was satisfied with the spark of anger that leapt into Axe's eyes. It meant there was still something there. A piece of his old friend that he might try to ignite like kindling at a bonfire.

  Anger was better than apathy.

  "I'd ask how you've been, but I know."

  "You don't know shit."

  Ryder took a deep breath, exhaling before admitting, "You're right. I couldn't possibly understand what you went through."

  As the words left his mouth, the nightmare of Artel Volkov victoriously standing over a naked Khloe flashed before his eyes. It was the closest analogy he could come up with to fathom the pain Axe had lived through in the last three years. Still, he knew the torture wasn't even close.

  "You mean what I'm going through," Axe corrected him.

  His Aunt Ginny had warned him in an email that Axe still clung to hope like a life-raft adrift in the ocean. He suspected it was none of his fucking business how Axe chose to handle his grief. Who the hell was he to barge in after all these years and judge his friend?

  But then he remembered Axe was the closest thing Ryder had had, and would ever have, to a brother. Both had been only children, growing up in the shadows of their powerful fathers. When Axe's father had been killed in an MC deal gone bad, Ryder's own father had taken him in as if he were his own son. The inseparable teenage boys had shared a bedroom like brothers for the two years leading up to Ryder's father's arrest on his seventeenth birthday.

  The teenagers had been placed at a crossroads in their lives at a young age–to follow in their fathers’ footsteps at the helm of the powerful motorcycle crime family they'd grown up in, winding up dead or in jail... or enlist in the Marines and
use their pent-up anger as fuel to fight evil in the world. They'd enlisted together, fighting the good fight for four years in Afghanistan and Iraq before Ryder had been recruited by the Central Intelligence Agency and Axe had come home to be a husband and father.

  Now, fourteen years later, Ryder had burned himself and would forever have to look over his shoulder for a boogieman named Volkov, and still, he knew he'd gotten the better end of the deal.

  "Have you gotten any new leads?" he asked, hopeful Axe wasn't just in denial.

  His friend polished off the last swig of the warm beer next to him, before pushing to his feet and heading towards the galley kitchen. "I'll get you a beer."

  "No thanks. This isn't a social call."

  Axe stopped, turning to stare back at Ryder. "I should have known. You only stop in when you need something."

  "That may be true, but it's still good to see you."

  "Don't try to blow sunshine up my ass. Why the fuck are you here?"

  Ryder was actually nervous. He was in serious need of someone with Axe's technology skills, but having seen his friend, he wasn't entirely sure that part of Axe was still alive and well.

  "I need your help tracking down a stalker. It's a high profile case, and I don't know anyone I can trust here in the states."

  "Bullshit. Call your boss or your handler. They'll fire up the shiny computers in D.C."

  "I'm trying to keep this on the down-low, for many reasons."

  "Sucks to be you."

  "Just like that. You aren't even gonna hear the facts. Not gonna open a file or look at a picture?"

  "You said it's high profile. I don't do high profile."

  "Yeah, well neither do I, normally. This is a special occasion."

  "Special in what way? Big bucks?" For the first time, Axe's eyes sparked with interest.

  "Why, you interested if so?"

  "Maybe. I'm always looking to pick up cash that I can use to keep my other investigations afloat."

  Ryder knew by other investigations, he meant he'd refused to accept that his now fifteen-year-old daughter, Mia, who'd been kidnapped at the age of twelve, was dead. It had to be a father's worst nightmare, knowing or at least hoping, his daughter was out there somewhere, waiting for her daddy to come in and rescue her, and not knowing where to find her.