Bodyguard

by Shirlee McCoy

  It was more that she didn’t have time for the training and the walks and the attention they needed. Plus, her sister had a small yappy poodle who despised Esme. The feeling was mutual.

  Esme hadn’t wanted to add another thing into her already hectic schedule. Planning weddings for demanding clientele took all of her energy and focus. If she couldn’t have a dog that she could make part of the family, she didn’t want to have one at all.

  So she didn’t have a dog.

  She didn’t want a dog.

  She sure didn’t spend her free time talking to dogs.

  King didn’t seem like a typical dog, though.

  He seemed completely in tune with Ian and absolutely devoted to doing his job. This time, his job had been to take down the shooter.

  Was he disappointed that he hadn’t been able to finish what he’d started?

  “If so,” she muttered, “I know exactly how you feel.”

  “What’s that?” Ian asked, his dark gaze suddenly on her.

  “I thought the dog might be disappointed. I was just telling him that I know how he feels.”

  “You were talking to King?” He smiled, a slow easy grin that softened the hard angles of his face and made him look almost approachable.

  Almost.

  “Is there a problem with that?” she responded. “Do you have a rule about people talking to your dog?”

  “He’s my partner, and you’re welcome to say anything you want to him. He probably is disappointed. He likes to be in on the arrest.”

  “Instead, he’s here babysitting me.” She eyed the canine. He was staring toward the trees, his body still tense, his hackles up.

  “And instead of being home planning summer weddings for rich clients, you’re here,” he murmured. “Is that why you’re disappointed?”

  “I’m disappointed that the people I love don’t love me. I’m disappointed that the people I trusted couldn’t be counted on.”

  “You’re talking about your brother and uncle?”

  “No.” She was talking about her sister. She was talking about Brent.

  She was talking about two people she’d actually believed in and counted on. The sad truth was she’d stopped counting on Reginald years ago. And she’d never counted on her uncle. Angus was her father’s younger half brother. A product of a second marriage, he’d made just a few appearances in Esme’s life when she was a kid. He’d been thirty years older than her, but he’d acted like a child—bullying others into doing what he wanted, whining when he didn’t get his way.

  She’d never liked him.

  His criminal activity was no surprise to her at all, and she liked to tell herself that he’d led Reginald into a life of crime.

  The reality, according to the FBI, was that Reginald had been running his business for several years before he’d asked Angus to join him. Her uncle had been more than eager to comply, but he wasn’t the boss.

  He most likely wasn’t the one who’d called the hit on Esme. That was probably the hardest pill to swallow, and it was the one thing she couldn’t bring herself to admit.

  Especially not to someone like Ian.

  “Your sister, then?” he guessed. “Or your fiancé?”

  Both, but she wasn’t going to admit that, either.

  “Do you think the police officer has found the guy who shot at us?” she asked.

  “Changing the subject?”

  “Just getting back to a more interesting one.”

  He smiled again. A gentle smile this time. The kind of smile that seemed to say he understood just how hard this was for her. “There was more than one person shooting, Esme. The guy in the building, and the one in the trees.”

  “I know.”

  “So which one do you want to find out about?” He took her arm, and she didn’t resist as he drew her around the side of the building.

  “Either. Both.”

  “We’ll go around front. I want to get you out of the open, so we’ll check in with the officer in charge and then get out of here.”

  “And go where?” she asked.

  “Wherever my boss sends us.”

  “The safe house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will it be as safe as my witness protection location?” she asked and regretted the flip question immediately. Ian had been trying to be kind. She knew that, and she shouldn’t have repaid him with attitude.

  “Safer,” he said without rancor. No excuses. No explanations. He’d already told her about a leak in the agency, and he’d already told her the leak had been plugged.

  “I’m sorry. That didn’t come out the way I wanted it to.”

  “What way would have been better?” he asked, King trotting along in front of him, heading toward the front of the building and the emergency lights that flashed across the pavement there.

  “Silence?”

  He chuckled, his hand still on her arm, his biceps brushing her shoulder. “Silence is the better part of valor. Or so my father always said.”

  “He doesn’t say it any longer?” she asked, even though she knew she shouldn’t. The question was too personal, and she didn’t expect him to answer.

  For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t.

  The muscles in his arm were tense and taut, his jaw tight.

  “I shouldn’t have asked that,” she began, and he shook his head.

  “It’s okay. I gave you the opening. My dad has been gone for ten years. He and my mother were killed in a drive-by shooting.”

  Her heart seemed to stop, then start again, beating the slow unsteady rhythm of grief.

  She felt like an idiot. Worse, she felt like an ogre.

  She’d stood in the hospital room and accused him of being in his cloistered law enforcement world making judgments about her life. She’d been sure he couldn’t understand the grief and anger she felt over her family’s betrayal, couldn’t understand the sorrow of her losses.

  She’d been wrong.

  “Ian,” she said, his name just a whisper in the warm night air, “I’m so sorry. I know that can’t help, but I am.”

  “They’ve been gone a long time, but I still think about them a lot. I’m sure you understand that. Your parents were killed in a small plane crash, right?”

  “You’ve done your research,” she said, trying to lighten her tone, take some of the sorrow out of it. Time did ease the sting of loss. It never healed it, though. She understood that just as much as she understood his pain.

  “It makes the job easier.”

  They’d reached the front of the building. The once nearly empty parking lot was filled with emergency vehicles and teaming with first responders.

  No more hushed summer night. It was loud and chaotic, the shattered glass and crumbling bricks spilling into the lobby, spotlights shining onto the wrecked furniture and huge Ram truck that sat in the center of the mess.

  “Were you folks inside?” an EMT asked, his skin ruddy from the sun, his eyes wide behind thick glasses. He looked young. Maybe early twenties, his uniform crisp and new.

  “Yes,” Ian responded, his fingers still curved around Esme’s arm. She could have pulled away easily, but she didn’t. There was something comforting about his touch, about the warmth of his palm through her sleeve.

  She wouldn’t think about that too deeply.

  She wouldn’t question it.

  She had too much going on, too many details to work out. Sure, she’d have to run eventually, but she still didn’t know which direction or how far she’d need to travel to reach a bus or train station. She’d have to take one or the other.

  An airplane was out of the question.

  And she didn’t have enough money left to buy a used car.

  She couldn’t hitchh
ike, and she sure couldn’t walk. She’d be too exposed, too easy to find.

  “Are you okay?” the EMT asked, his gaze shifting from Ian to Esme.

  “Fine,” she responded. “Is everyone else?”

  “Aside from the driver of the truck, there were no injuries.”

  “Where is the driver?” Ian asked.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I’m not at liberty to give out information about clients.”

  “I’m a federal officer. Special Agent Ian Slade.” He pulled out his wallet and flashed his ID. The EMT seemed satisfied.

  “He’s being triaged in one of the clinic exam rooms. He was shot in the chest. I’m not sure he’s going to survive.”

  “Do you know who the lead officer is?” Ian hooked King back to his lead.

  He let go of Esme’s arm to do it, and she stepped away, putting a little space between them.

  She didn’t want to like him. She sure didn’t want to rely on him. She’d made it a habit to avoid getting close to any of the police officers, federal agents or prosecuting attorneys. They were using her to get what they wanted, and she understood that. She also understood that she’d been cut off from everyone she knew and loved.

  She’d lost everything, and she was vulnerable.

  Esme had her faith, but having a friend would be nice, too.

  It would be easy to cling to any of the men and women who’d been shepherding her through what had become the most difficult time in her life.

  Easy and foolish, because she’d already had her heart broken once in the past six months. She didn’t want to repeat that. She didn’t want to feel that sense of surprise and betrayal.

  Love wasn’t supposed to be limited by circumstances. It was supposed to grow during the hard times. Not just romantic love. All love—family, friendship. Instead, she’d found that it had abandoned her.

  She needed to keep reminding herself of the way it had felt to know the people she’d loved didn’t love her in return. She needed to remind herself that she was a means to an end. Nothing more, and that if she let herself forget that, if she let herself believe she was forging relationships with these people, she’d end up hurt.

  Sighing, she took another step back, scanning the parking lot while the EMT pointed out the officer in charge.

  Maybe Ian would get so excited about interviewing the gunman that he’d forget he was supposed to be guarding her. Maybe he’d be distracted for just enough time for her to slip away.

  There had to be a store in town. She could ask for directions to the nearest bus stop or train station. She might even be able to call a taxi to bring her there. If there was a pay phone or someone willing to let her borrow a cell.

  That was the problem with going off the grid. It wasn’t easy to get help when she needed it. There was no one to call, no knight in shining armor ready to charge to the rescue. Worse, there was no one to consult with, no one to help make decisions. Her failures were her own. Which wasn’t a bad thing. Unless failure meant death.

  She eyed Ian and King, both deeply focused on the EMT who’d pulled out a business card and was scribbling something on it.

  She could try to leave now, and they might not notice. She told herself to do it. The federal government had already failed to provide the safety it had promised. She had no reason to believe that things would be different this time, that somehow the organization that had failed her would suddenly find a way to succeed.

  She took another step back, distancing herself from Ian and whatever security he offered. The intuition that had kept her alive, that had sent her running from witness protection, that had woken her from sleep when her uncle had broken into her trailer, kicked in. She could feel it in the pit of her stomach, a warning. Not to hurry. Not to disappear. To stay.

  She scanned the crowd, suddenly terrified that she’d see her uncle hidden among the gawkers who’d begun to gather. She didn’t find him, but she knew that meant almost nothing.

  She felt dizzy with fear, sick with the thought of catching a glimpse of him. Her head ached where the hair had been torn out, and she touched the spot, remembered how short she’d cut it. How short Ian had cut it. He’d been kinder than she’d expected, more gentle, and she had the sudden feeling that if she were going to be saved from her family, he would be the man to do it.

  That thought kept her in place, frozen two feet away from the man and dog she’d been telling herself to escape.

  “Good choice,” Ian said, turning in her direction as the EMT walked off.

  She didn’t respond, because she wasn’t sure it was. She only knew it had been the only choice she could make.

  * * *

  Deputy Sheriff Kennedy Sinclair didn’t much care to have the federal government messing around in one of her cases. She made that very clear to Ian more than once while he tried to get information on the truck driver.

  In return, Ian had made it very clear that the case wasn’t hers, that the federal government was already neck deep in it and that he wasn’t going to back off. No matter how much she wanted him to.

  Three hours after the truck had plowed into the medical center lobby, they were still at an impasse, Ian sitting on an uncomfortable chair in the corner of an interview room that smelled like vomit and mold, listening while Deputy Sheriff Sinclair asked Esme dozens of questions about her uncle, her family and her enemies.

  “Her enemies,” he stated, impatient with the process and wanting to move things along, “are her uncle and her brother. She’s told you that a dozen times.”

  “Thanks for your input, Agent Slade, but I’m aware of what she said.” The deputy sheriff tapped a pen against the old table that she and Esme were sitting at and frowned. “And I’m sure that you’re aware of how common it is for witnesses to change their stories.”

  “Not this witness,” he said, and she scowled.

  “Every witness. Ms. Dupree might think that she only has two enemies in the world, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t more.”

  “I’m sitting right here. I can hear every word you say about me, so how about you stop discussing this case as if I weren’t around,” Esme muttered, her hands splayed flat, palms down on the tabletop. Probably to keep from fiddling with her hair. She’d been worrying at the short strands, smoothing them down and then fluffing them up again.

  Nervous energy. Twice she’d gotten up and tried to pace the small room. The fact that King was lying smack-dab in the middle of the tiny bit of open floor had made that nearly impossible. Both times, she’d walked to him, looked down at him, frowned and taken her seat again.

  King had seemed to think it was a game.

  He’d followed her to her seat, nudged her hand to get the pet he thought he’d deserved and then retreated to the middle of the floor again. Currently, he was curled up, his nose tucked in neatly under his legs, his snout hidden, only his eyes visible. They were open. He was still on the job, after all.

  “I’m sorry,” the deputy sheriff said without a hint of remorse in her voice. “I’m just trying to get to the bottom of what happened tonight.”

  “I’ve explained everything I know. My uncle tried to kill me a few nights ago. He’s probably responsible for what happened at the clinic, as well.”

  “Maybe.” The deputy sheriff rested her elbows on the table and leaned toward Esme. Casual. Friendly. Ian had used the same interview technique more times than he cared to admit. “We found a jacket in the trees across from the clinic. Teeth marks in one sleeve. A little blood. I’m wondering if it could be your uncle’s.”

  “I have no idea.”

  “You didn’t see what he was wearing when he attacked you?”

  “It was dark, I’d been woken from a sound sleep. Once I escaped him, I was too busy running for my life to pay much attention to what he wore,” Esme said, a hint of irritatio
n in her voice.

  She’d planned to walk out of the hospital parking lot and run off again. He’d known it. He’d planned to give her the opportunity, and then he’d planned to stop her—a reminder to both of them that her agreement to testify against her family didn’t mean they were on the same team. She’d stepped away. He’d been geared up to send King after her, and she’d stopped. Just...stopped. No limping run toward the trees or the gathering crowd, no trying to dart away and hide somewhere until he gave up the hunt.

  He thought her decision to put her life in his hands had surprised her as much as it had surprised him.

  She’d spent the past few hours avoiding his eyes. She looked scared and shell-shocked, as if everything she’d been through the past few months had suddenly caught up to her.

  “Yes. I guess that’s true.” The deputy sheriff paused, tapping the pen more rapidly. “Can I be honest with you, Esme?”

  “It’s better than feeding me lies.”

  “This is a small town. We don’t get a lot of crime here. I’ve called in the state police to help collect and process evidence. As it stands, we know who the truck belongs to, but we have no idea who was driving it.”

  “Did you fingerprint the perp?” Ian asked, and the deputy sheriff frowned.

  “We’re a small town and not well funded, but we’re not inept.”

  “It was a question. Not a statement of your abilities.” He kept his tone neutral, and she seemed to relax.

  “I know. I apologize for getting a bit defensive. But the fact is that I’m a woman in a position that has been held by men for nearly a hundred years. Sometimes, I’ve got to act tougher than I am.” She released a breath and got back to the matter at hand. “We fingerprinted the guy at the hospital, and we’re running him through the system. So far, we’ve come up empty. We did locate a handgun near the jacket. We found several prints on it, and we’re running those, too.”

  “Any other evidence collected?”

  “No, but I’m very familiar with the Dupree crime family.” Her gaze shifted to Esme. “We’ve had run-ins with some of their drug transporters during the past few years. Cocaine. Heroin. There’s a little airport ten miles outside of town. They fly the drugs in disguised as commercial shipments and transport it through the Everglades channels and out into the black market. I’m certain I’ve only caught one out of every ten drug shipments. We search the cargo, but they’re good at what they do, and they know how to hide their product.” She sighed in obvious frustration. “I’ve been begging the town council to fund a K-9 program. We need drug-detecting dogs to really shut the runners down. So far, I haven’t convinced them to fund it.”