Against the Wall

by Debra Webb

  AGAINST THE WALL

  “Dangerous Protectors”

  Debra Webb and Regan Black

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 WebbWorks, LLC

  Edited by Marijane Diodati

  Cover Design by Vicki Hinze

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the authors’ intellectual property. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  D & R Books, WebbWorks, LLC, Huntsville, Alabama

  First Edition December 2014

  Table of Contents

  Dangerous Protectors

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS:

  Dangerous Protectors

  When there is no one else to turn to...

  When there is no one else to keep you safe...

  A dangerous protector from the Guardian Agency is the man you want for the job.

  The Guardian Agency was born of necessity and forged in determination, but every protector has one thing in common: He never fails. Whatever it takes, whatever the stakes.

  Prologue

  Two miles into his five-mile route, Dylan Parker kept running when his phone chimed with a new alert. He’d anticipated at least a week of downtime after his previous assignment. Maybe this was a follow-up.

  No such luck. The text message Protect showed on his screen.

  It was the one-word signal that he was back on the clock. Two additional messages would arrive any second with a picture followed by the address and preliminary background file of the person whose life was now his responsibility.

  He kept running, his shoes slapping against the ribbon of asphalt winding through the park, until he saw the address. Calculating the travel time, he took the next turn, cutting his run down to three miles.

  Every minute counted when a client was in danger.

  Chapter One

  Austin, Texas

  Wednesday, November 14, 3:55 p.m.

  Jana Clayton turned onto North Congress Street, willing her wobbling knees to function properly as she walked into her dad’s favorite coffee shop. Given a choice her appointment would’ve been held anywhere but here, and on any day but today. Tucking her sunglasses into the buckle of her purse strap, she joined the line and hoped her waterproof mascara would hold up.

  During the brief drive from home she’d blotted away fresh tears at each stoplight that gave her a clear view of the Texas Capitol building. For the first time in her life she cursed the city planners for their thoughtful and precise attention to that detail.

  When she’d received confirmation of the meeting’s location, she had known maintaining her composure would be yet another challenge. Nearing the counter she reminded herself that normal people didn’t break down sobbing at the mention of a caramel macchiato or a shot of espresso.

  Since her dad had been found dead in his study almost two weeks ago she felt as far removed from normal as a person could get. In an emotional fog, she’d slogged through countless ‘final’ decisions and accepted a torrent of sympathy during the public and private memorial services. Yet instead of getting better, she felt worse with each passing day. It wasn’t just the shock of losing the man who’d been her anchor and her inspiration. It was the oppressive loneliness, the suffocating realization that the one person who understood her dreams, her heart, would never see those dreams fulfilled.

  Yes, it was all that compounded by the letter she’d received by mail mere days after his death. Her dad’s last message scrawled by hand across official Texas Senate stationery kept her in this perpetual state of turmoil. Today’s meeting could focus that pent-up energy toward achieving justice. She had to hang on to that hope.

  Sniffling, she reached into the pocket of her short trench coat for a tissue to dab at her nose. She refused to take this meeting, which could mean the difference between an honorable legacy and a tarnished one for her dad, with a nose Santa Claus could use on a cloudy night.

  Reaching the counter she straightened her spine and placed her order in a calm, steady voice.

  Ramona, the barista who managed the shop, reached out and patted Jana’s hand. “We’re all so sorry about your dad, sweetie.”

  “Thank you.” Jana managed a small smile.

  “I nearly bawled my eyes out when I caught Sally Ann making the senator’s standing order for another customer this morning.”

  At the other end of the counter Sally Ann shook her head. “It’s a sad time for Texas.”

  Jana could only nod. For years, this shop had provided coffee and pastries for the Wednesday staff meetings. Such happy routines shared with her dad had been irrevocably erased from Jana’s weekly schedule. Her polite smile slipped as she struggled for the right words. It was important to listen, to let others share memories and express their grief. But every outpouring of sympathy felt like an emotional sucker punch, leaving her gasping for air. She was beginning to believe her stepmother, Camille, had the right idea. Beyond attending the memorials, Camille remained in a haze of Valium behind the closed curtains and locked gates of the Clayton family ranch.

  With no one to help her carry the load, Jana felt herself cracking under the burden. Someone had to be the public face of Senator Jefferson Daniel “J.D.” Clayton’s legacy. Based on the unpleasant and false rumors of his alleged depression published in this morning’s paper, she was also going to have to put out a few fires along the way. Her grief could wait, but she wouldn’t allow the press to sully her dad’s upstanding reputation. She’d already made a few calls, but everyone wanted to hear from the widow. Frustration momentarily overrode the more painful emotions.

  “It will take us all some time to adjust,” Jana said as she accepted her coffee. “He meant the world to so many people.” Hopefully those people wouldn’t believe the abrupt gossip and speculation.

  “He sure did,” Ramona agreed. “You and your family’ll be in my prayers.”

  Jana thanked her again and stepped back from the counter. Selecting a table near the wide front window, she settled into a chair and waited for her latte to cool a bit. No matter that her dad had improved life for countless Texans and had accomplished more than most during his three-decade tenure as a senator, someone had killed him.

  As if hearing her dad was dead hadn’t been enough of a shock, bad had quickly turned to worse when the authorities declared his death a suicide. Jana knew better. Disguising the heinous act as a suicide hadn’t fooled her.

  In that moment, her first thought, her first word, had been impossible. Her view hadn’t changed despite the evidence. Gunshot residue was found on his right hand and his fingerprints were on the bullets and gun. The highly critical news article about him and the agenda for the upcoming legislative session on his desk seemed to confirm the police’s conclusion. Jana, however, understood that her dad would not have killed himself over an editorial written by a reporter with a different opinion. There was a far more sinister explanation. There had to be. Unfortunat
ely no one agreed with her.

  Senator Clayton had never taken the coward’s way out of any crisis and he’d never backed down from a fight. Even if she was wrong about those two points, she knew beyond all doubt her dad wouldn’t have disgraced the family home or tainted her childhood memories of that home by killing himself in his study. While she couldn’t deny he’d been troubled recently by things he had chosen not to discuss with her, that didn’t mean he’d succumbed to some undisclosed depression diagnosis. The suggestion was absolute fabrication.

  First, Jana had done her research. The gunshot residue could have been planted in any number of ways. Of course his fingerprints were on the weapon and the bullets, because both belonged to him. Her dad had once been quite the hunter and gun collector. He’d always kept a handgun in the house for protection. And though he hadn’t taken a hunting trip or bothered with target practice in many years, he ensured his weapons were cleaned and oiled just as he ensured his home and vehicles were properly maintained.

  She had her dad’s letter, urging her discretion. The letter, in Jana’s opinion, confirmed someone smart enough and hateful enough to pin the blame on him had pulled that trigger. While she’d spent too many hours since that first awful phone call outlining and presenting a theory the police would take seriously, she’d made little progress. In fact, the tone of her dad’s letter and certain events since she received it had her looking over her shoulder all too frequently.

  She scalded the tip of her tongue on the first sip of her pumpkin spice latte. Taking a deep breath, she willed herself to remain calm. Any second now, backup would arrive in the form of someone she’d hired to listen to her murder theory and to help her find her dad’s killer.

  Would it be the man in a polo shirt and khakis with the leather portfolio in his hand and the Bluetooth device at his ear? Maybe a woman, she thought as a brunette in a sleek, black pantsuit walked in. Right behind the woman, a man in a wheelchair entered the coffee shop, thanking a lanky cowboy with a wide smile for an assist with the door.

  Jana didn’t know who to expect. Dylan Parker, the name of the contact provided by the Guardian Agency, wasn’t gender specific. She’d been informed that this contact would help her find the truth while providing protection. Jana was still waffling about the latter. One minute she considered the idea of protection over the top, and the next she thought maybe it was not such a ridiculous concept.

  Had she seen the man in the sport coat across the street near where she’d parked her car more than half an hour ago? The possibility that she was being followed certainly had her latching onto the notion of protection with more enthusiasm.

  Deliberately distracting herself, she shrugged out of her coat and reached into her purse to silence her phone for the meeting. Seeing a missed call from Gregory Atkins, the man who claimed so adamantly that he wanted to marry her, she cleared the history without listening to the message. Though he had been and still was more than willing to hear her say I do, Gregory refused to listen to her murder scenario.

  Blinking away the sting of his betrayal, she pulled together the frayed edges of her composure. Not even a hired investigator would listen if she blubbered incoherently through her story.

  “Ms. Clayton?”

  She looked up, mustering a smile for the cowboy who’d walked into the shop a few minutes ago. “Yes?”

  “Don’t mean to interrupt.” He reached for the chair opposite her. “I’m sorry about your dad.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate your condolences. If you’ll pardon me, I’m expecting someone any moment now.”

  “Glad to hear it.” He set his coffee cup on the table and removed his hat. “That’d be me. Dylan Parker, at your service.”

  He extended his hand and, acting solely on years of manners and breeding, she responded in kind. Could this man really be the investigator she was waiting for? She’d been sure the unconventional help she’d requested would arrive in more professional attire, like a dark suit or a nondescript trench coat. It was spy novel cliché, of course, but she hadn’t expected such a casual presentation.

  Her promised contact had arrived wearing a faded field jacket over a blue plaid shirt, with jeans and scuffed cowboy boots. She counted the freshly cut blond hair as a positive. The arresting blue eyes... well, the intensity there proved more than a little unsettling.

  “You’re Dylan Parker?”

  “Dylan’s fine,” he said as he sank into the chair.

  Wait, this wasn’t right somehow. This investigation was immensely important and he simply wasn’t what she’d had in mind. He looked like one of those romance cover cowboys in his tight-fitting jeans, though she couldn’t fathom why she noticed how they hugged his lean, muscular body. The name was right, but for the life of her she couldn’t see how this cowboy could be of any help to her. “I think there’s been a mistake.”

  “I get it. I’m not what you expected.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Happens to me all the time. Usually, it works to the client’s benefit. Why don’t you fill me in on what’s going on?”

  Here it was, the point of no return. As ready, as eager as she’d been, now she hesitated. What if this was the wrong move? When she’d hit the wall with the police and with her stepmother, she’d turned to the only person she felt she could—Theodore Kingston. Theo was a very dear friend who had been like a second father to her during her tumultuous teenage years. He had insisted she needed the Guardian Agency. Theo had made the initial call.

  What Jana really wanted was someone who would come to Austin and confirm what she believed. As true as that was, she understood the situation required an objectivity she simply could not summon.

  “I need an investigator, but everyone in town is too connected,” she began, and then paused to take a deep breath.

  “No one is impartial, everyone in town has an agenda—political or otherwise,” he finished for her. “The transcript from your background email is part of your file.”

  That he knew what she’d put in her follow-up email did little to calm her nerves. Suddenly, her carefully planned recitation of events since her dad’s death flew out of her head, replaced by a jumble of thoughts rooted in fear and distrust. She glanced out the window, noticing the man in the sport coat had moved down the block but not out of sight. Was she being foolish? Could she afford not to talk to this man?

  He raised his coffee cup, his eyes serious as he gazed at her over the rim. “You’re having second thoughts.” He took a long sip, and then returned the cup to the table. “If you’ve changed your mind about my services—”

  She thought of the letter and the latest media rumors. She had to do this for the sake of her dad’s reputation and for her peace of mind. “I haven’t changed my mind. If you have the transcript of my email you know my prevailing theory.”

  “Emails don’t always convey the whole story. I prefer getting the details face-to-face, in the client’s own words.”

  Reminding herself that she needed this man’s help, Jana poured out the whole story, keeping her voice low enough to avoid being overheard. When she’d finished, Mr. Parker considered her for a moment. She resisted the urge to squirm under his penetrating scrutiny.

  “Let me get this straight.” His blue gaze searched hers as tangibly as a touch. “Despite the evidence the police presented, you think someone shot your dad in his study at home and staged the suicide.”

  “Yes.” No matter that his voice was hardly more than a whisper, Jana surveyed the crowded coffee shop. “This isn’t the place to discuss these details,” she murmured. Perhaps this entire idea had been a bad one. What on earth had she been thinking? Discussing these details with a stranger suddenly felt wrong somehow. Panic trickled through her.

  “In my experience,” he said, drawing her attention back to him, “new clients prefer to meet in a public place.”

  She wouldn’t argue that point. Still, she couldn’t do this here. “Let’s go for a walk.” She stood, gathered her coat and purse, a
nd sent a farewell wave to the staff behind the counter.

  “Works for me.” He pushed back his chair, reached up and settled his hat in place. His broad shoulders tested the seams of his jacket. Gregory certainly didn’t have shoulders like those.

  Jana turned away and headed for the door. Dear God, what was wrong with her? Had she really just thought that?

  Mr. Parker stepped smoothly around her and held the door open as he had for the man in the wheelchair. Once they were outside, he asked, “Who do you suspect?”

  Out of habit she turned toward the capitol. Her heart clutched, but she refused to retreat. She had to look at the building without falling apart or she’d never survive the necessary return to her dad’s offices. Grateful for the sunshine, she used her sunglasses to shield her grief. Her career—present and future—was tied to that building.

  She weighed his question for a moment before answering. “That’s the problem. No one with access to his study had any reason to want him dead.”

  “That you’ve found,” he countered. “You’re a smart lady, Ms. Clayton. You didn’t take this step just to have coffee with me this afternoon. Give me whatever you’re holding back.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” With his good looks and brash approach he was more likely to be a lobbyist than a private investigator. “You said you read the transcript.”

  “I did, which is why I believe you’re holding back. Your story is compelling, but what in particular made you reach out for help? There had to be something that convinced you the police were wrong.”

  “You mean beyond the fact that I knew my dad wouldn’t do this terrible thing?” At his pointed look, Jana took a breath and reached for calm once more. “My stepmother’s reaction when I mentioned my concerns was the last straw.” Even now, Camille’s response hurt. “I recognize she’s overwrought. I really do. I just can’t comprehend how she seems to find the explanation of suicide more plausible than murder.”