The Protector: MAC: A Cover Six Security Novel

by Lisa B. Kamps

  "Stay here."

  "But—"

  "Stay. Here." He pinned her with a glare that left no room for argument then moved into the living room, stepping over broken glass from the artwork that had once hung on the walls.

  His gaze swept over the destruction: the slashed sofa cushions, the overturned coffee table and end tables, the destroyed artwork and small Christmas tree. Nothing had been left untouched, not even the small flat screen television, which had been thrown to the ground and smashed.

  Mac tossed a quick glance over his shoulder, checking on TR. Making sure she stayed put, making sure she was safe. Her face was ash white, almost transparent against the inky darkness of her black hair. She stared at the destruction, her pale blue eyes unnaturally wide in her face.

  Shock. Yes, of course she would be in shock. The best thing he could do would be to drag her out of here, drag her to safety. Take her back to his place and hide her until he found out what the fuck was going on.

  And he would—in a minute. Once he checked out the rest of the apartment. Once he figured out what the fuck they—whoever the fuck they were—had been looking for.

  If they had even been looking for anything.

  Mac dismissed the thought as soon as it came to mind. Of course they'd been looking for something. This wasn't a case of random vandalism, or a simple break-in. The destruction was too complete, too angry. Too out-of-control.

  But why? What the fuck was going on?

  Mac continued through the apartment, his anger growing with each silent step. The kitchen had been ransacked, cabinets emptied and their contents smashed against the floor. The refrigerator door hung askew, vegetables and fruit and even that half-bottle of white wine TR had in there were destroyed and tossed to the side.

  He passed the kitchen, his body hugging the wall as he moved toward the bathroom and looked in. More destruction that didn't make sense. The bedroom was next; he paused, reached out and slowly eased the door open...

  This room, like the rest of the apartment, had been thoroughly trashed. Drawers had been removed from the dresser and tossed to the side, the closet contents removed. Clothes littered the floor. The slashed mattress and box spring rested against the wall where they had been thrown. Even the dresser mirror had been shattered, the shards of glass reflecting the light coming through the torn blinds in the window.

  A shadow moved behind him and he whirled, anger clenching his jaw when TR stepped around him. Mac tucked the gun into the waistband of his jeans, his free hand already closing around TR's arm.

  "I told you to stay put."

  She ignored him. Or maybe she was so focused on the destruction laid out in front of her that she didn't even hear him. He tugged her out of the room, leaned down until her gaze finally met his.

  "Dammit, TR, I told you to stay put. When I tell you something—" He bit back the anger, forced himself to take a calming breath. Calming, hell. No force on earth was powerful enough to calm him now, not with the destruction surrounding him.

  Not with the sight of TR's quivering chin or the way she blinked back the tears forming in those wide, pained eyes. "Why? Who?"

  Mac released his grip on her arm and gently ran his hand over her shoulder. "I don't know, babe, but we'll find out. Come on, we need to get out of here—"

  "But I need to get my things—"

  "Later." He glanced over his shoulder, bit back the anger creeping over him. Her things were trashed, most of them damaged beyond repair. TR must not realize that or else she wouldn't have asked—

  "My files. I need the files."

  He started to tell her the files were probably gone, that surely whoever had trashed the place must have taken them. Why else would they have broken in? Why else destroy everything in sight?

  TR moved past him, heading toward the kitchen on legs steadier than he expected. He started to call after her, to ask her what the hell she was doing. He needed to get her out of here, now.

  It would be easier to drag her out—and he would if he needed to. Hell, he'd toss her over his damn shoulder and carry her out if she gave him any shit. He followed her into the kitchen, ready to do just that, when he slid to a stop behind her. She was reaching for a rack on the wall, a cheap key rack in the shape of a resting cat. It had been pulled from the hooks and hung at a crazy angle, what was left of the wooden cat's tail raised high above the head. Three hooks protruded from the tail, the small curved kind designed to hold keyrings. Two of the hooks were empty. The third one held a nylon lanyard filled with decorative pins. Trailing from the lanyard was a small plastic pig, maybe two inches long, its pink body stained and marred.

  TR yanked the lanyard from the hook with enough force to pull the wooden plaque from the wall. She didn't even look at it when it hit the floor, simply draped the lanyard around her neck and tucked the stupid plastic pig into her shirt. Mac started forward, ready to ask her what the fuck was so important about a stupid goddamn fucking pig. He opened his mouth but instead of words splitting the silence, there was an ominous roar.

  Long. Loud.

  And with enough force to knock them both to their knees.

  Mac lunged for TR, covering her body with his before his mind even registered the noise. An explosion. A fucking explosion. Disbelief stunned him for a second that felt like eternity.

  An explosion? Here, in TR's apartment?

  No, not inside her apartment—outside, in the hallway.

  Right where they would have been if she hadn't stopped for the lanyard.

  But what was it? The boiler? Something in the laundry room that served the building?

  He didn't know—and he had no plans to stick around to find out.

  The shrill clang of alarms rang throughout the building, interspersed with surprised cries and loud shouts coming from the hallway. Smoke was already filling the apartment, dark and acrid. TR struggled in his arms, trying to push him away, trying to stand.

  "No! Stay down."

  "But—"

  "I said stay down!" Mac tightened his hold around her waist, pulled her against his chest and dragged her from the kitchen. The far wall—the one that separated her apartment from the interior stairs of the common hallway—was partially collapsed and already burning. Orange flames licked at the drywall, teased and played against the ceiling until it, too, erupted in flames. Smoke thickened, growing darker, heavier, filling the air around them.

  Leaving through the door was impossible—the explosion had originated just on the other side of it. The patio doors? No, too close to the fire. It would be too risky, too hot.

  The bedroom window. It was their best chance.

  Mac grabbed a towel from the carnage on the floor and shoved it into TR's hand, shouting to be heard over the roar of flames and the screech of alarm bells. "Put this up to your face. Breathe in through your mouth, short breaths."

  TR stared at him, her eyes wide with panic, with surprise. She tensed in his arms and for one frightening second, Mac thought she was going to jump to her feet and run for safety.

  But she remained where she was, her wide gaze locked on his before she finally nodded and raised the towel to her face. Mac didn't waste any more time—he grabbed TR and rolled her to her back, ignoring her cry of surprise. He pressed his mouth close to her ear. "Wrap your arms around my neck. Hold on."

  "Mac—"

  He ignored her and started crawling, dragging her along with him, using his body to protect her, his strength to propel them down the hall to the bedroom. Prayed to God that he wasn't dragging her through glass, that he wasn't causing her pain.

  She didn't say anything, made no noise at all except for the occasional cough that echoed his own. Smoke banked from the ceiling, coming closer to the floor with a speed that frightened him. Heat intensified, growing hotter with each agonizing inch of progress.

  How much further? The apartment wasn't a big one, the hallway no more than ten feet long. He reached out with his left hand, ran it along the wall to get his bearings. The
y had to be close, they weren't that far away to begin with—

  The wall disappeared beneath his hand, giving way with a suddenness that surprised him. He felt around, blind now in the choking smoke, touched the doorframe as a sigh of relief escaped his parched mouth. He lunged through the doorway, rolled to the side and kicked the door closed. It would buy them a little time, only minutes—

  But every minute would count.

  The air was clearer here, but only marginally. Mac pushed to his knees, his arm still locked around TR's waist as he hurried toward the window—then paused.

  TR's apartment was on the lower level of the building, partially underground. And while her patio door opened onto level ground, the window didn't. The ground behind the building sloped up on the sides, meaning her bedroom window sat at chest level—his, not TR's. He closed his eyes, pulled up a quick mental picture of the landscape outside. Dirt and bushes and, a few yards away, trees. Lots of fucking trees.

  Because TR liked her privacy. She liked sitting out on the patio and enjoying the quiet of the woods that ran behind the apartment building.

  Woods that could be hiding anything—or anyone.

  Dammit. Fuck!

  Mac sat with his back to the wall, running different scenarios through his mind. He could go through first, make sure the area was secure then pull TR up and out behind him. But she'd be in the choking smoke longer, exposed to the heat and toxic fumes. What if she passed out? What if the fire reached the room before he could pull her out behind him?

  Or he could push her out in front of him, follow behind her—

  A coughing fit seized TR, long and hard, so hard he felt her body shaking where she was pressed against him. The smoke was thicker now, burning eyes and lungs, obliterating sight. How much longer? Minutes? Seconds? What would happen when he smashed the window? Would it give them some much-needed fresh air—or would that same air feed the fire and make things worse?

  Fuck it.

  He yanked the Glock from his waistband, made sure there was a round in the chamber and the safety was off. He grabbed TR's hand, folded it around the grip and leaned down, yelling in her ear.

  "I'm pushing you out. Shoot anyone who comes near you."

  She shook her head, tried to hand the gun back. "Mac, no—"

  "I'll be right behind you."

  He could sense her getting ready to argue again, ignored her feeble protests as he stood and thumbed the latch on the window. Heat seared his face, his ears, his lungs. He ignored it, slid the window open and sucked in a gasp of cold air a split second before the heat behind him intensified. He reached down, grabbed TR by the waistband of her jeans and hauled her up, pushing her halfway out the window as the fire roared behind him. He planted one hand on her ass and shoved her out the rest of the way as a wall of flame charged toward him, drowning out the sound of her voice as she screamed his name one final time.

  # #

  "What the hell is going on down there?" The voice was cold, angry, on the edge of losing control. The man replied with silence, knowing he needed to phrase his answer carefully.

  The silence was broken by a string of classless profanity. "Answer me, dammit. What the hell is going on?"

  The man's hand tightened just the slightest bit on the phone, relaxed as he took a deep breath and moved away from the crowd of onlookers. "It appears the woman's apartment building is on fire."

  "On fire?" The voice on the other end of the phone rose an octave. "You set the fucking building on fire? After I told you to stand down?"

  Anger swept over him, as swift and hot as the fire rapidly consuming the building in front of him. He pushed it back, reminded himself that he did not feel emotion, and calmly answered. "I had nothing to do with this." He hesitated, briefly clenched his jaw, relaxed. "Sir."

  Yes, that was the right touch, tacking the sir at the end. It would show just enough respect for his patron's position of power.

  The voice on the other end did not sound appeased. "Am I to believe this was just another coincidence? So soon after the accident? Do you honestly think I'm that stupid?"

  Had his patron just called him stupid? The man frowned, trying to read the nuances of his patron's tone of voice. He had no experience with this kind of thing, wasn't sure how to proceed. His first reaction was to disconnect the call, to cut the ties of the agreement he'd been bound to and continue on his own.

  No. Not yet. The man might still have use for his patron—if not the man himself, then most certainly his position. His money.

  The man skirted the edges of the crowd and made his way back to the car, using the quiet minute to formulate his response—

  And another plan.

  "I do not believe this was a coincidence."

  "Then what the hell do you believe?"

  He had to be careful. Very careful. If he answered the wrong way, there was a chance his patron may call him off completely. He couldn't allow that to happen, not yet. Not until he was able to put his plan in motion.

  He climbed into the car, pulled the door closed behind him, shutting out the noise of the arriving fire engines and blaring sirens. Of the onlookers complaining about the cold even as they stared at the destruction caused by the flames.

  "I believe there may be a third party acting on orders from my client."

  "A third party?" There was a long pause before the voice spoke again, the tone different this time. Thoughtful, possibly even amused. "Yes, that would make sense. The disease could be deteriorating what's left of his mind, exacerbating our friend's paranoia."

  Another pause, followed by a decisive sigh. "There will be a change of plans with new orders issued. I need you back here. We'll discuss the next phase when you return."

  The man wanted to argue but knew better. It wasn't his place to argue, only to follow orders. That was why he'd been created and trained.

  That was what they paid him for.

  Silence echoed in his ear, letting him know the call had been disconnected. He slowly lowered the phone, carefully dropped it in the car's cup holder.

  The man stared straight ahead, his gaze focused on the truck parked several spaces down from his. MacGregor's truck.

  But where was MacGregor? Where was the woman?

  Nowhere in sight.

  There was a possibility they were still inside. The man had arrived seconds before the small explosion in the woman's apartment, had watched the residents stream outside then mill about in panic.

  But there had been no MacGregor.

  No woman.

  Last night, he had thought he had overestimated MacGregor, had come close to writing him off as a worthy opponent. But he'd read more of his file—a file that wasn't supposed to exist—and realized he had been too hasty in his dismissal. MacGregor wasn't his equal—nobody was—but it would be amusing to play with him until he grew tired of the game and ended his life.

  Yes, it was the man's fate to end MacGregor's life—and only the man's.

  It was unfathomable that the couple was still inside. MacGregor was too strong, too worthy an opponent. No, they must have escaped, possibly out the back.

  The man refused to believe otherwise.

  And if they hadn't?

  Then the client would pay, no matter what his patron insisted.

  But not yet. Not until he reported as ordered, not until he'd been given new direction. And then...

  Then it would be his turn.

  And if it transpired that MacGregor had perished in the fire? That the client had taken matters into his own hands and eliminated the only worthy opponent the man had encountered in far too long?

  If that happened, he would make the client wish for a quick death—

  And it would be a wish that fell on deaf ears.

  Chapter Thirteen

  This couldn't be happening. It was a dream. No—a nightmare. An awful nightmare. She'd wake up, coated with a chilled sweat, kick the covers off and lay there, staring at the ceiling while she tried to catch her breath. A mi
nute would go by, then another, maybe one more after that until her pulse slowed and her breathing calmed. She'd force a laugh, chide herself for her overactive imagination, then get ready for work.

  She'd drive to the office, where her editor would assign her the article on the Frederick property—an article TR would immediately turn down because that was obviously what the nightmare was trying to tell her: stay away from it. All of it.

  She pushed to her hands and knees as a coughing spell seized her, nearly knocking her back to the cold, hard ground as her lungs forced the acrid smoke from her body. And oh God, it wasn't a nightmare. The ransacked apartment, the sight of all her things destroyed. The explosion and the fire, even the gun in her hand, thrust there by Mac—

  She lurched to her feet, tripped and nearly fell before catching herself and turning back to the window. Choking smoke, thick and black and oily, oozed from her bedroom window. Shouts and cries came from the front of the building; below that, the wailing shriek of a fire alarm and, from the distance, the wail of sirens. But back here, on the small tract of uneven land that separated the building from the woods, there was an eerie silence broken only by the harsh sound of her breathing and the crackling of flames.

  "Mac!" Her scream was nothing more than a garbled croak, forced through a raw and swollen throat. She crawled closer to the window he had shoved her through, her bleary gaze focused on the smoke streaming from the opening. Watching, waiting, knowing he'd be coming out any second now, he had to, he had been right behind her—

  "Mac!" Her cry was weaker now, burning her raw throat with fear. Where was he? He had to be there. She'd accept nothing else.

  TR dropped the gun and scrambled closer, ignoring the way the hard ground and small rocks tore at her palms and bit into her knees. Ignoring the wall of heat and curtain of smoke. Mac was in there, she needed to get to him—

  She dropped to her belly and pushed herself toward the window, knowing it was close, thinking only of Mac. One hand in front of the other, using her elbows and feet to propel herself forward. She heard something, a cry or a growl, then collided against something hard.