Bodyguard Dearest (Bodyguard #1) (11 page)

“He overstepped, messed with the natural order of things. I know it and he knows it. The results were deadly. He had no business interfering in their culture, no business having a romantic involvement with the girl. And the men under his charge were put in harm’s way by his decision, a decision that would have led to a dishonorable discharge if not treason.”

“He tried to help her,” I say weakly.

“It seems he has a habit of that,” Daddy says. “And the results have not been good for anyone. He started drinking when he was released from the hospital. The guilt ate at him. He was a total mess when I found him.”

Nothing makes sense anymore. I can’t believe Tanner of all people would do something so reckless. It’s against everything he values.

“I gave him a helping hand when he had nowhere to turn and this is how he repays me,” my father goes on. “I made a respectable man out of him and he thanks me by betraying my trust, seducing my youngest daughter, humiliating me in front of my friends and colleagues.”

That word again. Respect. And on the opposite side of the spectrum, humiliation. Those two polar forces have ruled my father’s life. I wonder what happened to him to make him like that.

“Maybe the right thing to do would be to encourage the silent witnesses to come forward and set the record straight. That poor girl and those young soldiers deserve the truth to come out. They might still be here among us if Tanner Hayes could have kept it in his pants.”

I’ve had it with him. “Don’t be vulgar, Daddy. The details of their relationship are none of our business. He cared for her and he cared for his men. He didn’t send that suicide bomber into the building. Maybe he loved her. Did that thought ever cross your mind?”

“You’re so innocent,” he says, shaking his head. “Love. This is your defense for all sins.”

“You’re one to talk,” I say. “Keeping us all prisoners to protect us.”

“Trista, he didn’t have time to fall in love. He just got stuck. Extremists threatened to kill her. He had no choice but to hide her or her death would be on his watch, so to speak.”

“How do you even know all this?” I say, losing my patience with him. I’m sure that even if part of what he’s saying is true, a lot of it is just bullshit. Where does the truth end and the lies begin?

“Trista, you know I have my ways of collecting information. Tanner himself filled in many of the blanks during our extensive interview process. There was a time Tanner and I shared every secret.”

“I’m sorry, but I think you’re shaping a lot of this, Daddy. They may not be complete lies, but your interpretation of events is obviously stilted.”

He sighs, opening a desk drawer. He takes a folder out and taps his fingernails on it. “Don’t you see the pattern, Trista? The defiant girl rebelling against her father’s culture. Tanner’s naïve savior complex increasing risk exponentially in an already dangerous environment. Last time a girl ended up dead. I’m not going to let that happen.”

“Her father’s culture was stuck in the Stone Age and so is yours. None of this would have happened if you had allowed me a shred of freedom, if you had granted me the right to just live a normal life.”

He sits back in his chair, considering my words. “If your Prince Charming was so innocent then why did I find him drowning his guilt in alcohol? Getting pissed every night was all he wanted to do.”

“Now who has the savior complex?” I say under my breath.

My father stares at me. I think we are both exhausted by the exchange. He picks up an old baseball that sits on his desk.

“It’s good to have context,” he says.

“Great,” I say. “Is that it? Or is there more?”

He sighs. “That’s enough.”

The door opens as he finishes. Derek stands in the doorframe, blocking the view of the hallway. I am slowly beginning to see what this is all about.

“Derek is the new head of security,” my father says. “He will make sure you stay out of trouble.”

“Tanner will come looking for me, you know that.”

“I’m counting on it.”

I wish I could say the look on his face is evil or sinister, but it is actually the most relaxed I have ever seen him. These type of shell games are how he has lived his entire life.

Derek puts a big, strong hand on my arm. Not as tender as I’ve become accustomed. I fight the strong urge to kick him. It would be pointless and I am tired of all my pointless rebellions.

There is only one thing I want now. I want Tanner to stay away.

My father hands me the folder he had put on the desk. “Something to pass the time. Tanner’s military records. Not for the weak of heart.”

I fight the tears and the hate. My fingers stiffen as I take hold of the folder. Inside are pages that detail his dark past. All I want is to write a bright future with him together. We could be born anew. Start over.

Walking the corridors of my luxurious prison, I try to accept that Tanner was not carved from stone as I had always imagined. He’s something different, a survivor built up from the rubble, from all the jagged pieces of his lost and broken years.

When my bedroom door closes behind me, I jump onto my bed, landing with my face buried in my pillow and scream.

Tanner

W
here to begin? I’m numb. In my paralyzed hands there’s a note she left on the nightstand. The walls are closing in.
She asked me to let her go
.
She’s changed her mind
. I’ve been gut shot before. This is worse. I thought I knew Tris. I thought I knew us. I’ve lost everything. Again.

Always the fuckup. Always the fool.

My head doesn’t feel right. Too slow, too hazy. My instinct is not okay with this. My guard has been down, but I can’t be so wrong about everything. No, this can’t be. It’s just Tris running, following her impulses as usual. She probably thinks it’s for my own good.

Fucking beautiful Tris, forever running. I need my hands on her right now. I feel sick with need for contact. Her and me. Us.

I decide it’s all as expected.
One fucking step at a time.

Empty garage and stolen car—check.

Jax and Ella gone—check.

Tanner Hayes left stranded without a car—check.

I’ve been in more dire goddamned positions. Being weaponless and alone in the Afghani Mountains at night springs to mind.

If I need to hike down from Big Bear then so be it. I need to get back to the city as soon as possible. The hiding phase is over. It’s about time I dictated the terms of this battle. There are people I did not want to bother with my domestic problems. Maybe it’s time to collect on past favors.

I scroll through my phone contacts when I sense it. A barely audible scuff against fabric, the slightest interruption of air flow from downstairs. If I were anyone else, I’d conclude it’s probably nothing, just a curtain responding to a tiny draft coming from an imperfect window frame. But a man like me develops a deeper hearing. What I do is subconsciously seek out any change of pattern, even a change in the nature of the quiet. A blueprint forms. I begin to imagine all possible eventualities, no matter how crazy, within seconds.

A soldier develops that when he’s sleeping and can access it when awake if he stays ever vigilant and calm. My extra sensory skills have increased somehow since my head injury. Being in a coma is like shutting down your senses, but I think my desire to get back to the world began an unconscious eagerness to use my senses while I was stranded in perpetual darkness.

It’s a theory. All I know is it helps in my new line of work.

Slowly I drop to the floor and crawl like a careful cat all the way to the window. I lift my head to peek outside. There’s nothing out of the ordinary except for two birds flying away in a hurry, startled by something—or someone.

I’m on the second floor but the snow will provide adequate cushion for someone who is no stranger to jumping out of windows.

The window makes a little more sound than I had hoped when I open it. I quickly crawl out and hang from the window with both hands. I land on my feet with minimal discomfort to my knees and ankles.

I scan the area quickly. I could run to the thickly treed area on the right without being seen and just wait it out. No. Fuck that. I feel like being on the offensive. I don’t always play the percentages. Sometimes I follow the rage.

My handgun slides into my hand easily when I retrieve it from my pocket. I circle the cabin in a crouch with my gun ready. In the distance, I hear an engine. Sounds like 800 cc to me. A snowmobile.

The silent cabin reminds me that a fatal shot could be coming from any window at any moment. I remember also that I left my bullet pack behind. I only have what’s in my two guns.

I’m not myself. Too slow. Prone for mistakes. Almost as if I’m drugged.

The truth finally dawns. I
am
drugged.
Nice, Tris.

I plop down on my ass, my back against the side porch wall. The snowmobile is approaching, there’s a second one close behind. And then I hear something as clear as a bell—the quiet loading of a rifle at the opposite side of the porch.

My breathing slows as I wait. When a frozen board creaks I rise in a spin and find two intruders near the door. I squeeze off a couple rounds, striking the second intruder in the left shoulder and hip. He falls to the floor. Not kill shots but he’s losing blood faster than is healthy.

I can’t worry about him now. I kick him in the head to give a rest to his cries of agony. The other intruder made it in the door unharmed. My guess is there are at least two others already inside.

Four men, Jordan Kane?
I’m insulted. These are not my men. Kane knows they’d never be okay coming after me. The team’s connective tissue could crack if they had to kill one of their own. These are mercenaries, bounty hunters after cold hard cash. They’d kill me on the spot without a second thought.

That’s a
good news–bad news
thing. Bad because I don’t know how they work. Good because they don’t know how I work. They must have heard of me, though. They must have known their own life expectancies dropped by a few decades as soon as they accepted the assignment.

That means these particular men are desperate or dumb. Two of the surest ways of catching some lead. I don’t take cover. I don’t run. They’re overmatched. Even if they don’t know it.

I pick the unconscious thug off the floor and hold him in front of me like a human shield. He’s bleeding out anyway. Unintentional, but useful. The front door is open. I enter without hesitation. Cowards hide like cockroaches. I guess that makes me the light switch.

The first gunman peeks his head from the top of the stairs, firing his gun wildly, killing his buddy and catching my left arm.
Lucky bastard
.

The bullet hit nerve hurting like hell. This day just keeps getting worse. Now I’m pissed off. The adrenaline mixed with the alcohol and the drugs Tris gave me have been giving me a whopping headache.

My arm weakens as I stumble backwards. I toss my human shield aside and decide this has to end quickly or I will. It’s show time.

Shit, sounds like another set of footsteps above
. That makes four live hostiles and I’m short on bullets (and arms). Very few people know I’m ambidextrous and can equally handle guns with both hands.

I start by splitting the skull of the motherfucker on the stairs the next time he takes a peek. I prefer to injure rather than kill, but his own bullet has put me on a short clock.

I find my second gun under the back of my shirt stuck in my belt. I take off my shoe and toss it onto the stairs which causes a flurry of panicked return fire. The idiots killed the hell out of my shoe. I’d laugh if my vision wasn’t already blurry. Seriously, I’m going to drop any minute and be bested by fucking amateurs. It’s too fucking embarrassing to consider so I suck it up, take a deep breath and hope they miss when I run up the stairs.

I barely have time to lift my gun on the steps as one of them decided to run down as I was running up. I just get my gun up to shoot him right through the neck. That same bullet goes clear through him and hits the second guy in the cheek as he glances down the stairs. Now I’m the lucky bastard. We’re even on the luck. Actually we’re even in another way as well. There’s only one guy left. My eyes are so dry now they hurt. I’m dizzy from blood loss.

“Dude, put your gun down,” I say. “I’m in a hurry. You can live. I don’t care about that.” Actually, that’s a white lie. I kind of have to shoot him or he’ll kill me when I faint in about thirty seconds and claim the bounty.

“Okay,” he says. “I’m dropping my gun and coming out.” I hear the gun drop. That’s a little bit of a surprise.

“Make it quick,” I yell, grabbing some wall to keep from falling.

The last intruder slowly appears at the top of the stairs.

“Cool,” I say and then shoot him. Not fatally. I had no choice. I’m about to faint. I drop almost in sync with the guy at the top of the stairs dropping.

“What did you do that for?” he moans, clutching his upper pectoral near his right shoulder.

“You’ll live as long as I do,” I say. “I had to do it in case I faint.”

“We made a deal,” he says as the blood gushes through his fingers.

“No offense,” I say. “Your credibility was not that high since you showed up to kill me.”

I tear the shirt off the head-shot intruder next to me. I tie it tightly above my wound on my left arm, slowing the blood loss.

“Are they all dead?” he says.

“Two of them are dead. The other might make it.”

“And me?” the poor bastard asks.

“As long as I stop the bleeding, you’ll make it and have no permanent damage.”

“How fucking nice of you,” he says, becoming groggy as he lies across the top steps.

I move up the stairs on my butt one step at a time. I tend to my new friend as he moans and groans and eventually passes out. When he wakes, he’ll be alive as I promised. I keep my promises.

Next to my sleeping adversary I find his phone. Once I have bandaged his wound, I’ll have a call to make to get all this cleaned up so I can keep Jax and Ella from getting dragged into this whole mess. It will cost me every single penny I have and then some.

I find my gym bag on the counter. Tris brought it in from the SUV and left it on the counter before she left. That old medical kit has always been one of my most trusted allies.

The hitman on the stairs needs some extra attention and I give it to him before I drag myself to the bathroom to examine my own wound in the mirror. Fuck, it entered through my lower biceps. No wonder it hurt. I won’t be at full strength for weeks, but I’ll recover eventually. Hope I’m around to enjoy it.

At least the bullet exited politely through the triceps.

I grab a sterile gauze from the kit and use it to apply pressure on the entry point. I’ll have to stitch that motherfucker up before I go or it will just re-open and I’ll pass out in minutes. I’ve already lost a couple quarts.

Grinding my teeth, I push and pull the needle through battered skin and flesh to stitch myself back together. It’s quick work. Been there, done that. The exit wound is barely bleeding. I’m able to put a patch on it and tape it.

“I should be a fucking surgeon,” I say, congratulating myself.

I return to the living room and sit down on the edge of the blood-stained couch. Calling the police is not an option. There’d be too much explaining to do. My head gets a little light. I drink what I think is water, but turns out to be some lukewarm tequila from last night. Yikes.

One thing’s for sure. Kane would not have sent these men to kill me if he thought Tris was here. That means she’s home. That’s both a relief and it hurts a little, too. What the hell was the point of our heroic escape?

I know she did it for me, but I still feel betrayed. She thinks she can lie to me and drug me and she thinks she knows how to handle these things better than I do, a fucking college girl. Where’s the trust?

Time crawls as I go over every detail again and again. The fixer crew arrives eventually with a doctor. I hope to God they are as trustworthy as I think they are.

I waive the doctor off, direct him to the other guy. My mind wanders while they clean. I drift back to places I normally try to avoid revisiting. Maybe it’s the pain in my body and soul, or the fatigue, or the fresh blood I have on my hands—I don’t know. I just close my eyes and let it all come back to me like a tender caress.

Anisa
. My heart pounds at the memory. It was a crisp, bright morning almost six years ago. Anisa came to meet me at our usual place—an ancient, half-ruined, Hindu temple outside the town limits. Locals believed it was cursed ever since a fire started inside the temple that spread to the nearby fields and destroyed crops and killed animals and people. Anisa did not care for such superstitions. She was a pragmatist, too modern for her world.

Four months. That’s how long I knew her. That’s how long I adored her courage and her beauty. She was so happy that day. Her big, almond-shaped, dark eyes shined with determination. She had been promised a visa to the States once her work was complete. We’d been waiting for it. Her safety would always be compromised in her homeland. She had been vocal in her ideas about the education of women in the region. She had drawn attention to herself.

I’d have given my life in exchange for hers. I was spared and for that I was not grateful, not for a long time.

In the end, none of my precautions were enough. It all came crumbling down with the walls around us. Anisa paid with her life. I am still often haunted by her singularly beautiful eyes, her captivating smile, her grace and modesty and her hopes, her undying hopes.

My courage was nothing next to hers.

“We’re done,” one of the
cleaners
say. “Need a ride down the mountain?”

I nod. “Yeah, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”