Bodyguard

by Shirlee McCoy

  “It’s not anyone’s fault. He’s got a lot of money, and he likes to hire people to do his dirty work.”

  “I’m hoping he’s planning to do his own work tonight.”

  “You think he’ll show up?”

  “I don’t know. Julianne and Zeke are prepared for it. We went over all the variables.”

  “Are you upset because you had to stay here and guard me?” she asked softly.

  “I’m upset that you have to go through this. I’m upset that Jake Morrow and Angus Dupree are wandering free while we hide in this house. I’m not upset about guarding you. I told you before, Esme, I’ll keep doing it as long as it’s necessary.”

  “Don’t say that. It might be necessary forever,” she cautioned with a laugh that sounded a little too loud and a little too phony.

  “That’s an interesting thought,” he responded. “How about we revisit it after this is over?”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Why would I be?”

  “Because I’m a Dupree and you’re trying to bring down my entire family?” she said, her mouth dry with something that felt a lot like nerves.

  “I’m going after criminals, Esme. You’re not one of them. I’m not going to lie. That wasn’t my mind-set when we met. You were the last assignment I wanted to take. My boss had other plans.” He shrugged. “Or, maybe, God did.”

  “Probably God did,” she said, and he smiled.

  “My father would agree.”

  “You don’t?”

  “If you’d asked me a week ago, I’d have said I didn’t know. It’s tough to see God in things that make us unhappy. Now...” He shook his head. “I can’t deny that I see Him working. Getting to know you has mended something in me that I didn’t know was broken. Revenge tastes sweet when you’re first going after it, but it turns bitter in the end. I’m glad God didn’t let me get that far down the path.”

  “My uncle and brother need to pay for what they did.”

  “They do. But there’s a difference between revenge and justice. Spending time with you has clarified that for me.” He brushed a few strands of hair from her forehead, cocking his head to the side, studying her again.

  “You cleaned up your haircut, didn’t you?” he finally asked.

  “Julianne helped me.”

  “She did a good job. Next time, I’ll drive you to the hairdressers instead of helping you with the scissors.”

  “You’re planning a lot of things for a future we may not have.”

  “We’re going to have a future, and I have a feeling we’re going to be spending a lot of it together.” He ran his knuckles down her cheek, looked so deeply into her eyes, she thought he might be seeing her soul.

  Her hand moved of its own accord, her palm sliding along the warm column of his neck, her fingers smoothing the silky strands of his hair.

  He didn’t pull back, didn’t tell her to stop, didn’t list a dozen reasons why it wasn’t appropriate for them to be sitting the way they were. He just looked into her eyes and into her heart, and she looked into his, seeing things that she hadn’t expected. Attraction. Interest. Compassion.

  His cell phone buzzed, and she jerked back, the sound like a splash of ice water in her face.

  He glanced down at his phone screen, frowning as he read the text.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Things didn’t go down the way we’d hoped. Angus sent three men to the church. There was a shoot-out. All three are dead.”

  “What about Zeke and Julianne?”

  “Zeke was hit. Doesn’t sound like a serious injury, but Julianne is accompanying him to the hospital.”

  “And Angus is still on the loose.” She said what they were both thinking, named the thing neither of them wanted.

  “Right.” He bit out the answer, his eyes flashing with banked fury.

  She wanted to offer words of comfort. She wanted to tell him that Angus would be caught. She wanted to say that justice would be served, and that God would bring them all through this safely.

  She wanted to say a dozen things that she hoped would be true, but he was moving across the room, dialing a number, talking to someone, each word a hard staccato beat.

  King walked next to him, whining softly in response to the wild energy that suddenly seemed to fill the room, and Esme was redundant—an extra in a drama she should have had no part in.

  She stood, limping across the living room and down a narrow hall. Her room was at the end, a single door that opened into a plum-colored boxy space. The bed sat in the middle, a peacock blue comforter clashing with the walls. She turned off the light, let the darkness hide the garish decor.

  She could still hear Ian, his voice drifting through the closed door. She thought she heard him talking about a new plan. One that involved Jake Morrow.

  She didn’t leave the room and ask him to clarify.

  He was busy. Doing what he was paid to do. Protecting civilians from criminals like Angus.

  She shuddered, pulling the pillow over her eyes, pressing it hard against lids that seemed to want to let tears seep out. She prayed for Zeke, that his injury really was minor and that he’d recover quickly. For Ian, Julianne and the rest of the team.

  And then she prayed for her family. Prayed that Violetta would do the right thing, and that Angus and Reginald would pay for their crimes.

  When she finished, she lay still, the house settling around her, Ian’s voice silent, the only sound the soft lap of wind against the windows and the rhythmic click of King’s claws as he walked from room to room, waiting for danger that Esme hoped would never come.

  * * *

  Zeke and Julianne arrived at the house an hour before dawn.

  Neither of them looked happy.

  Ian wasn’t happy, either. The thick bandage that peeked out from under the short sleeve of Zeke’s shirt was a stark reminder of just how bad the mission had gone.

  Three gunmen dead. One federal officer injured.

  And no sign of Angus.

  He was out there, though.

  Haunting the streets, waiting for news and for an opportunity to strike again.

  “How’s the shoulder?” Ian asked as Zeke dropped into the gaudy recliner.

  “It would be better if I didn’t have a bullet hole in it.”

  “Don’t exaggerate,” Julianne chided. “It barely grazed you.”

  “Tell that to my shoulder. Maybe it will stop throbbing.”

  “They offered you pain meds,” she chided.

  “I’m on duty.”

  “I can call Max and ask him to send someone else,” Ian offered, and Zeke scowled.

  “Don’t even think about it. This—” he poked at the bandage “—has made things a lot more personal.”

  “Did we get an ID on any of the gunmen?” Ian asked.

  “Locals,” Julianne replied. “The deputy sheriff knew all three by sight.”

  “I guess you were right about the Duprees owning this town.” Zeke stood and walked into the kitchen, opening the fridge and surveying its contents. “Eggs, anyone?”

  “Are you cooking?” Ian asked.

  “Only if I have to. The arm is a little sore.”

  “I’ll take care of it.” Ian needed to do something. Beating eggs seemed a whole lot less violent than beating Angus to a bloody pulp.

  He frowned as he poured the eggs into a hot pan.

  Justice. Not revenge.

  But it was hard to keep that in mind when a guy like Angus was out there.

  His cell buzzed, and he pulled it out, glancing at the text as he spooned cooked eggs onto plates. It was from Dylan, the message making Ian’s pulse race.

  Max has been injured. Shot while he was walking his dog. Should
be fine. He’ll call once he’s been triaged.

  Julianne and Zeke must have received the same text.

  They were moving toward him, phones in hand, looks of shock and outrage on their faces.

  “Jake,” Ian said. Just that. They knew. He knew.

  No one else could have done this. No one else would have.

  “I thought maybe he was yanking our chains, trying to get his way, but he really did mean he was going to pick us off one by one if we didn’t hand Esme over.” Zeke sounded as furious as Ian felt.

  “He acted quickly. Didn’t even wait a few hours. He must have gotten a call from Angus and gone after the closest team member,” Ian said.

  “Which means he’s hanging out somewhere close to headquarters.” Julianne frowned. “He’s brazen.”

  “He’s a fool,” Ian corrected darkly. “He thinks he’s too smart and too fast to be caught.”

  “So far, he’s been right.” Zeke smoothed down the edge of his bandage and grabbed a plate of eggs. He shoveled in a mouthful as he eyed the message.

  “He’s been right because he’s been lying low. Now that he’s showing himself more, we should be able to catch him,” Ian responded.

  “Catch him. Catch Angus. Go back to our regularly scheduled program,” Julianne agreed.

  Ian’s phone rang. He glanced at the number.

  Unlisted.

  Again.

  And he knew exactly who it was.

  He answered, every bit of the rage he felt seeping into his voice. “What do you want, Jake?”

  “Esme Dupree. I told you that. Apparently, you weren’t listening.”

  “I listened. Now it’s your turn. You’re going down for this, Morrow. I’m going to make certain of it.”

  “You’ll have to find me first, and that’s proved really difficult for you and the team. So how about we call a truce? You promise me the woman, and I stop shooting at team members.”

  “How about you jump off the nearest—”

  Julianne snatched the phone from his hand, putting it on speakerphone.

  “Jake?” she said, her voice a lot calmer than Ian’s had been. “It’s Julianne. I think you know the team never makes deals with criminals. Back off and give us space to do our job. We’ll protect your son, if you don’t get in our way.”

  “Like you protected Max?” he said with a snide laugh that made Ian’s blood run cold.

  “I was shot tonight, bro,” Zeke said angrily. “Going after the goons your friend hired. How do you feel about that?”

  “I told you to stay away. I warned you. Angus doesn’t care who he kills.”

  “It doesn’t seem like you do, either,” Ian pointed out.

  “You’re wrong. I have to make tough choices. I got in deeper than I planned. Maybe I underestimated how much of a hold Reginald and Angus had on me, but that doesn’t mean I want to do what I’m doing. This is for my son. If people have to die to keep him safe, so be it.”

  “Not just people, bro,” Zeke snapped. “Family. That’s what this team is. It’s what we were supposed to be.”

  “I tried to protect you, Zeke. I warned you, and that shot at Max? I could have killed him if I’d wanted to. Consider his injury a warning. Next time, I won’t miss. I’ll be in touch soon, and I’ll let you know where the next rendezvous will happen.” He disconnected, the sudden silence heavy with tension.

  “He needs to be stopped,” Julianne muttered, pulling out her phone and punching in the number for headquarters.

  She was calling Dylan.

  Ian was certain of that.

  Good. He didn’t want to talk to anyone.

  Not yet.

  He needed to collect his thoughts and get himself focused. Two team members had been shot in one night. The situation with the Duprees was escalating. Angus was becoming more desperate. It wasn’t just the team and Esme whose lives were at risk. Jake’s son and ex-girlfriend might also be in trouble.

  He’d let Julianne talk to Dylan, see how Max was and inform the team of the danger. Ian would stick to the plan and follow protocol. It was time to patrol the property.

  He called King. The dog came immediately, ready to work or to play. Whichever Ian chose.

  For now, they’d just walk, skirting the perimeter of the property, checking to be sure no one was lurking in the shadows.

  Praying that maybe someone was.

  Angus would be a good find. Bringing him in would be the culmination of months of hard work and years of planning.

  A decade.

  That was how long Ian had been waiting to bring the Duprees down.

  He didn’t want to have to wait any longer, but he would. He’d bide his time as long as it took, and when it was over, when Angus was in jail and the crime syndicate was defunct, he’d finally be able to move forward.

  Out from the shadow of anger and hatred.

  Into something bright and new.

  An image of Esme filled his mind, her soft lips and vivid eyes, her silky hair falling straight to her nape.

  Her smile.

  A Dupree cut from different cloth. One who deserved all the good life could bring. He wanted to make sure she got it.

  But first, he wanted to find her uncle, toss him in jail and throw away the key.

  TWELVE

  Seven days was a long time to be stuck inside a gaudily decorated swamp shanty. Seven nights was a long time to lie listening to the hushed voices of Ian and his team.

  And now she was on night eight.

  Doing exactly what she’d done for the past seven.

  Counting the opening and closing of the front door, listening to the soft pad of paws on the floor outside her door, to the quiet bark of King as he patrolled the property.

  Waiting for dawn to come and something to change.

  She turned over in bed, eyeing the tiny cracks in the shades that covered the window. She wanted to pull the cord and open the bright yellow vinyl, to look out into the darkness and watch the moonlight reflected on the water.

  She wanted a dozen things that she couldn’t have, but mostly she just wanted this to be over.

  Sighing, Esme climbed out of bed, padding across the floor on bare feet, wincing as the boards creaked. It was an old place. She’d learned that about it, the rough-hewn floors speaking of a bygone era, the window glass wavy from age.

  Not that she was allowed near the windows.

  Seven days without sunlight was beginning to get to her.

  She could admit that.

  If not for Ian, she’d have gone stark raving mad by now. He’d entertained her with stories of his childhood, taught her how to play chess, insisted she teach him how to bake her mother’s award-winning pound cake. It was the recipe she used when she was meeting clients for the first time—pound cake and coffee or tea. Making the cake, laughing as she watched Ian measure flour and butter and try his hand at whipping cream had been cathartic.

  It felt good to laugh.

  It felt good to sit with someone who seemed to want to sit with her. It felt good to play chess and checkers, argue over who’d get the last piece of cake or the last slice of ham.

  It wasn’t just Ian, though.

  She’d become friends with Julianne, offering suggestions on the wedding the FBI agent was planning with Brody Kenner, a man she’d broken up with years ago and had recently reconnected with. She’d run into him while she was searching for Jake Morrow. He’d been sheriff of the small town of Clover, Texas. Now he was training to join the K-9 team.

  Julianne had told the story matter-of-factly, but Esme had seen the joy in her eyes and in her face. She’d promised to help her choose colors and decor, find vendors and, maybe, pick a dress.

  Ian had heard them talking and gone on a
mission, returning hours later with a bagful of wedding magazines.

  Zeke had laughed, but he’d sat in the ugly easy chair and given his opinion about the dresses and flowers and food.

  Funny. The seven days she’d spent in the ugly house at the edge of the swamp had taught Esme a lot about what friendship was and about what family meant. She could see that was what Zeke, Ian and Julianne were. They were a team, a pack with three leaders, all working together for the good of the group.

  She liked that.

  But she hated waiting. She hated wondering just how long their little group would stay together.

  It wouldn’t last forever.

  She didn’t want it to.

  Esme paced back across the room, settling into the rocking chair that Ian had brought for her. She hadn’t asked where he’d gotten it or how he’d known that she preferred simple wooden frames and plain blue cushions to anything ornate or fancy. Instead, she’d just thanked him and enjoyed it.

  That was the thing about being in the safe house.

  Things weren’t complicated.

  Not unless she thought too much about them.

  Then she’d start to wonder and worry and ask herself questions she couldn’t answer—like what she was going to do when Angus was finally apprehended and she could move on.

  Ian had hinted that they’d move on together.

  She liked that idea, but she was trying to enjoy the moment, to take what he was offering now and not question it too much.

  Anything could happen while they were waiting for the trial, and this thing they were feeling—this fragile new relationship they were forging—could become old and blasé and boring.

  She snorted.

  If she were being totally honest with herself, she’d admit she didn’t want that to happen. She’d admit that the more time she spent with Ian, the more things she learned about him, the more time she wanted to spend and the more she wanted to know.

  She’d never felt that way about Brent.

  He’d been a nice guy. She’d liked him. He’d seemed faithful, moral, hardworking—all the things she’d been looking for. He hadn’t been the kind of person who’d told stories to make people laugh. He’d told stories to impress, and for a while, he’d impressed her. He’d done all the right things, gone through all the right motions. Flowers. Candy. Expensive dinners.