Racing Toward Love (Horses Heal Hearts Book 2)

by Kimberly Beckett

  Ian’s former commanding officer from the SAS, Major Roger Davis, had left the service and started his own private security firm. Protection of high value clients was Davis Security’s stock in trade. To successfully evade an international crime syndicate with vast resources at its disposal, Megan and her family needed the best. If Roger ran his company anywhere near as well as he ran their unit in the SAS, he would be perfect for the job.

  Roger was one of the few of his former SAS comrades who kept contact with him after he left the service. He still had Roger’s personal cell phone number. It would be late afternoon/early evening in the U.K. right now, so this would be a good time to call.

  Roger answered on the second ring. “Stafford, you bloody bastard. How are you doing? I haven’t heard from or seen you in an age.”

  Ian smiled at the good-natured jab from his former commanding officer. It had been several weeks since he had called Roger.

  “Actually, Roger, I need your help,” Ian said. “I’m working security for the Brady family, the owners of the thoroughbred stallion Seabiscuit II, and we’re being pursued and threatened by the O’Reilly crime family.”

  Ian heard Roger curse under his breath, “You don’t do anything in half measures, do you Stafford? What can I do to help?”

  “We have to get Seabiscuit II to Chicago, so he can safely board a plane to Heathrow, and then transport him from Heathrow to Doncaster, so he’s in place for the St Leger Stakes race ten days from today. We also have to keep him and the Brady family safe until the race. Can you help?”

  “I’ll do whatever I can. When are you traveling to Chicago?”

  “This Friday.”

  “I’m sorry, old man, but I can’t make it there that quickly. Other engagements Friday into Saturday morning.” There was a brief pause as if Roger was considering something. Finally, he returned, “I may be able to help you in another way, though. Do you remember the SEAL Team leader we worked with on the day Neil died?”

  Ian’s body tensed. That fateful day was permanently recorded in his mind, like it or not.

  “Scott Miller?” Ian said.

  “That’s right. You’ll be happy to know that Miller left the Navy and has a position as a special agent with the FBI. He’s currently stationed in the Louisville, Kentucky, field office.”

  “Are you pulling my leg?” Ian said incredulously. ‘He’s actually right here nearby?”

  “He is. My firm just worked as a contractor for his office to extradite a high value prisoner from the U.S. to the U.K. to stand trial for offenses committed here in London. He was as surprised as I was that the world was so small, we could run into each other so soon after leaving the service.”

  “I’ll give him a call. My guess is he will be interested to know that members of one of Ireland’s most notorious crime families are in his back yard and looking to cause trouble.”

  “There is no doubt in my mind he would love to have that information, if he isn’t already aware of their presence in his neighborhood.”

  “Now about our protection in the U.K. Will your firm be able to help us once we land in London early Saturday? Can you provide security and escort to Doncaster? We’ll also need protection while Seabiscuit II and the Bradys are staying in Doncaster until the race. The Bradys are happy to pay whatever fee you require.”

  “For you and your charges, certainly. I’ll put my best team on it. Keep me informed of your travel plans once they’ve solidified, and we’ll be there—no worries.”

  “Thanks, man, I owe you one.”

  Roger laughed. “You haven’t seen my bill yet.”

  Ian smiled as he hung up. He hoped Roger was joking, but he knew that the winner’s purse for the 2000 Guineas Stakes was a little over a quarter of a million pounds and the winner’s purse for the Epsom Derby was just under a million pounds. It was more than enough to fund round the clock security for a week. However, he needed to provide firm numbers to the Bradys before he committed them any further than protection for the trip from Heathrow to Doncaster.

  Now to renew his acquaintance with former Lieutenant Commander Scott Miller. He looked up the number for the FBI field office in Louisville, dialed, and then asked for Special Agent Miller, providing his name when requested. It was only seconds before a familiar voice came on the line. The soft southern drawl was even more pronounced than Ian remembered as it came through the receiver.

  “Ian Stafford. How the hell are you, man?”

  Ian was acutely aware that the last time Miller had seen him, he had been overcome with grief and barely able to function, but he also knew that he and Miller shared common experiences. They had both lost close friends and comrades to war. If anyone would understand his grief, it would be Scott Miller.

  “I’m actually much better, Scott. It has taken some time, but I’m slowly recovering.” He remembered that Miller had lost one of his own men on that fateful day. “I hope your unit made it back to the States after the operation without any more casualties.”

  “We did. Even one is too many. We did take out the sniper who killed your friend, Neil, though. I thought you’d like to know that.”

  Ian’s throat constricted as the memories of that day came back. He did remember hearing a final shot ring out as he was holding Neil’s lifeless body. He felt a degree of satisfaction that the man who had killed Neil had paid with his life, but in the end, Neil was still gone. He cleared his throat past the lump, hoping Miller hadn’t detected his reaction.

  “Thanks. Yes, it is good to know, although nothing will bring Neil back. I still miss him. He was too young and full of life to die like that.”

  “Agreed.” Miller sounded distracted, most likely remembering team members of his over the years who hadn’t made it.

  Ian quickly changed the subject. “The reason I’m calling is I’m here in Lexington as security for the Brady family. They own the thoroughbred stallion, Seabiscuit II.” Ian went on to explain to Scott why they were in Kentucky and the family’s situation with the O’Reillys.

  “Ah, yes. The O’Reilly syndicate. I just received an Interpol transmission informing me that three members of the syndicate arrived in the U.S. yesterday, traveling by private jet. No one in Interpol seemed to know what they are here for, but horse racing was a major probability. It seems they were correct. Have they done anything overt yet? Have they made any threats?”

  “Nothing yet, but I expect them to try something soon. We have to move the horse from the farm here in Lexington to the airport in Chicago on Friday, and I’m thinking they’ll make their move then. Can you provide us with some support?”

  “I think our headquarters would OK surveillance of dangerous criminals on U.S. soil, especially if there’s a potential their purpose for being here is to further their criminal activity. I’ll also warn my men there’s a high probability these guys are armed and dangerous. Let me make some calls, and I’ll let you know as soon as I can what the bureau authorizes.”

  “You said there were three of them?” Ian said. “What can you tell me about them? Who are we dealing with?”

  “Hang on. Let me get the file.”

  Ian heard the tapping of computer keys in the background, and then Miller was back on the phone.

  “The only man we recognize of the three is O’Reilly’s oldest son, Quinn. He’s got a rap sheet a mile long and has served prison time for assault. It’s highly unusual for the son of a major organized crime figure to accumulate such a lengthy rap sheet since most fathers would prefer their sons keep a low profile and stay out of trouble. Quinn, however, has the reputation for being a hot head, and his short temper and lack of self-control have gotten him into trouble on numerous occasions.

  “Recently, he has developed a reputation as an enforcer. Unfortunately, although he’s the prime suspect in a string of brutal kidnappings a
nd murders, the British authorities have never been able to prove anything. O’Reilly is very good at covering for his men or bribing local authorities to look the other way when he has the need to send a message. My guess is the other two are there to provide whatever muscle Quinn needs to get the job done.”

  “Thanks, Scott, that’s good to know. I’ll be certain to inform the Brady family, so they’ll be prepared. I’ll certainly be better prepared as well.”

  “Stafford, I know you’re personally involved with the Bradys and have skills and training most average men don’t have, but please leave these men to me. We have the legal authority here and are perfectly capable of dealing with men like this. Don’t endanger your life unnecessarily.”

  Ian’s jaw tensed. “I understand, Scott, but I have to tell you if any one of those men threatens a member of the Brady family or their horse, and there’s something I can do to stop them, I won’t hesitate to act. I’ll also hope you and your team are close by.”

  He heard a note of resignation in Miller’s voice as he signed off. “I wouldn’t expect anything less. We’ll be there, brother. You have my word.”

  Chapter 22

  At dinner that night, Ian noticed Walter glance over at Sarah, who nodded slightly, urging him to speak. He stood, and when he had everyone’s attention, he said, “Daniel, children, Sarah and I know you expect to have a confrontation with the O’Reilly men when you leave this place. Sarah and I have talked, and we think if we ask our neighbors here in Lexington, they will help.” He looked directly at Ian.

  “Ian, would having a number of local families available for whatever you need them for help you keep our family safe?”

  Ian was taken aback at the fact that the Gibsons were so certain that if asked, their neighbors would pitch in to help them regardless of the danger. However, he was concerned about involving a group of untrained citizens in this very dangerous fight. “Walter, I’m concerned I won’t be able to keep your friends and neighbors safe. I would prefer not to involve anyone else. Thank you, but no.”

  “Before you count us out, Ian, at least give our friends a chance to prove they are capable of handling themselves under pressure.”

  Ian was still not convinced. “I already have a plan in place that I think will work with just the immediate family.”

  Walter appeared disappointed. “At least let us meet and tell you what we can do. Many of these folks are experienced hunters and are extremely good shots. A couple of them are former military. They call themselves the Bluegrass Mafia.”

  That statement didn’t give Ian a feeling of confidence, but he realized Walter wouldn’t give up and would continue to insist that Ian give his neighbors a chance to contribute. He relented.

  “Let me sleep on it, and tomorrow morning, we can get together and see if I can find a way to work them into my plan.”

  Walter nodded. “Sounds good. After dinner, I’ll make a few calls, and I’ll suggest we gather at the usual meeting place, the Keeneland Track Kitchen, for breakfast tomorrow.”

  That night, Ian didn’t sleep a wink, tossing and turning, unsure of how he felt about the current status of his relationship with Megan, and worried about how he would get the Bradys to the Chicago airport safely. Since he couldn’t sleep anyway, he used the time to come up with a way to include civilians in his plan. His ultimate goal was to keep the press and the O’Reilly men off balance for a time, which he hoped would be enough of a delay to complete their escape. He then collapsed into bed, hoping to catch a couple of hours of sleep before morning.

  ~ ~ ~

  Megan spent most of the night listening to the sound of Ian either restlessly pacing or to the constant squeak of the wooden bed frame. Her heart ached for him as he was again taking on a responsibility for a situation over which he had little control but which he was willing to risk his life to protect her family and their horse. Yet the stubborn man refused to take a risk when it came to love. Even after everything he had told her leading up to today, she knew Ian loved her. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be willing to make such a sacrifice to ensure her safety. How could she convince him she was strong enough to be his for the rest of their lives? That his PTSD didn’t matter? No easy answers came to her. Eventually, she fell into an exhausted sleep.

  ~ ~ ~

  As the sun rose the following morning, Ian dragged himself out of bed, took a quick shower in an attempt to wake himself up, and then met the others for the drive to Keeneland. He rode in the car with Daniel, Stephen, and Megan. Sarah and Walter had already left, eager to greet their friends.

  As Ian, Daniel, Megan, and Stephen arrived at the track kitchen, the smell of fried bacon and sausage, freshly baked biscuits, and sausage gravy surrounded them. Ian’s mouth immediately started to water, and his stomach growled. He hadn’t realized until now how little he had eaten at dinner last night after arguing with Walter about the Bluegrass Mafia—he shuddered inwardly—even the name sounded reckless. He fought back his first instinct, which was to find a way to politely refuse these people’s help, and decided he should at least give them the chance to make their case.

  The growling of his stomach was loud enough that Megan turned to him with raised eyebrows and a mischievous smile. Ian avoided her gaze but couldn’t suppress a surge of heat from crossing his face.

  The Keeneland Kitchen was nothing fancy. The green vinyl floors were unremarkable, and the eating area was filled with Formica-topped tables and utilitarian vinyl padded chairs. There were already several people eating breakfast and looking curiously at the group now assembling. Walter and Sarah had already commandeered a large table in the center of the cafeteria, and, one-by-one, several local residents went through the cafeteria line to select and pay for their breakfasts, and then took seats at the table.

  To assuage his hunger, Ian filled his tray with plates of biscuits and gravy, eggs, bacon, sausage and some grits. He carried his heaping tray back to the seat Walter indicated was saved for him at the head of the table. He looked up as Megan sat down next to him. Her plate of food was much smaller. Only scrambled eggs and a couple of slices of bacon graced her plate. She looked just as exhausted as he did. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one who had trouble sleeping last night. He tried to get her attention, fighting the urge to offer her comfort and knowing she would find hope in his gesture, yet he still wanted her to know he would do everything he could to protect her and her family. She stubbornly avoided eye contact.

  Only after several men and a few women entered the Kitchen, piled their plates high with breakfast food, and joined the group at the largest table in the room did he stand and explain his plan for avoiding a confrontation with the O’Reilly men and getting Biscuit back to the U.K. in time for the St Leger Stakes. As he looked at the faces around the table gazing at him expectantly, Ian was energized. He relished the familiar rush of adrenaline. It was similar to what he used to feel when planning and preparing for an SAS mission.

  “Friends,” he began, “thank you for your willingness to help us. I understand that Walter and Sarah have explained the situation we find ourselves in and have asked for your assistance.

  “Before we begin, I believe it’s necessary to tell you these men from Ireland are dangerous. They’re cold-blooded killers. It’s one thing to talk about in the abstract, but I don’t want any of you to take any unnecessary risks, or behave in a way that might put you in danger. If my plan works, it’s quite possible you may have to confront these men. If that happens, please don’t go out of your way to aggravate them. If I don’t miss my guess, when they make their move and find out they’ve been fooled, they’ll be royally pissed and won’t need a lot of provocation to take out that aggravation on whoever is closest.

  “Now that I’ve explained the amount of danger that will be involved with this plan, is there anyone who has any questions or who wants to say anything? If you don’t wan
t to participate, the Gibsons and Bradys will certainly understand and are still grateful for your willingness to help.”

  At that point, a large, well-dressed man who sat directly opposite Ian at the foot of the large table stood up to speak.

  Walter interceded. “Ian, this is Beauregard T. Rockwell, the leader of our group. He prefers his friends call him Beau. Beau is a highly respected race horse owner and one of Lexington’s most prominent citizens.”

  Ian nodded to the man in acknowledgment.

  “All right, Beau, what’s on your mind?” another man piped up.

  Walter then introduced Will Coleman, one of the track’s leading trainers. Once Ian acknowledged him, Coleman continued. “We’re all ears, and itching for a fight.”

  The rest of the group laughed at the brash trainer, some adding their own ribald comments about foreigners daring to threaten a local family, but Beau became serious.

  “Look, Will, I want to make sure you understand what Ian, here is saying. These are dangerous men. I want you all to think twice before agreeing to take part in this plan.”

  Will’s expression sobered, the gravity of the situation becoming crystal clear to him and the rest of the group.

  “I’ve got you, Beau. I’m sorry if I led you to believe I’m not serious about the risks we’re taking helping our friends here.” He gestured to the Bradys. “I’m in for whatever you think is best.” He looked around the group and saw all of them nodding their heads in agreement.

  “All right, then. If you’re ready, this is my plan. As I see it, we have two primary goals. First, we must ensure the O’Reilly men can’t interfere and harm the Bradys and Biscuit, and second, we need to ensure the press doesn’t thwart our efforts by exposing our plans, thereby playing right into the criminals’ hands.”

  “To do this, we’ll need at least two, but preferably three, teams of people, each of which will drive a truck pulling a horse trailer. The three rigs will all leave Whiskey Ridge at the same time, drawing away the attention of the O’Reilly men and the press. They will certainly suspect we will try to trick them into following the wrong rig, so using multiple rigs will fulfill their expectation. They will, almost certainly, split up and follow one of the three trailers. However, contrary to their assumption that Biscuit is in one of the three trailers, he will actually be in a fourth.”