The Protector: MAC: A Cover Six Security Novel

by Lisa B. Kamps

  TR.

  Christ, if not for her, he'd storm out of this fucking room and take off for destinations unknown. He needed to clear his fucking head. Gather his thoughts.

  Convince himself he wasn't seeing conspiracies where none existed. Because that was the problem: everyone else in this fucking room was convinced he'd finally jumped over the edge and let his grudge take over his common sense.

  "Is anyone going to tell me what's going on?" TR's clear voice finally broke the tense silence. She met his gaze first, only to frown when he clenched his jaw tight, keeping the words bottled inside. She sighed then turned toward Daryl, waited expectantly while the tension started to thicken once more.

  Daryl swore under his breath then looked at Mac. "It's your story to tell. Are you going to fill her in or not?"

  Dammit, Mac didn't want to tell her. Didn't want to rehash that fucking nightmare again. He started to shake his head but made the mistake of looking at TR. Made the mistake of meeting her gaze.

  Pale blue eyes, so fucking blue they took his breath away. Made his gut clench with want and need. Not just her eyes, but the emotion he saw in their depths.

  Worry. Respect. Love.

  She loved him, had told him so last night, seconds before she drifted off. Did she even remember saying the words? Had his own words somehow reached her through her sleeping subconscious? Damn if he knew. And fucking coward that he was, he hadn't asked her. And he hadn't repeated them.

  Neither had she.

  Not this morning when they woke up and made love again.

  Not while they sat down to eat breakfast.

  Not when they'd been at her office.

  Whether she remembered saying them or not, whether she had heard him or not, didn't matter. Everything she thought and felt reflected on her face and in the depths of those pale eyes. And what he saw was answer enough.

  She loved him.

  And she had a right to know.

  Mac ran a hand over his face, felt the ruined flesh by his mouth, his jaw. Ignored it as he released a pent-up breath on a heavy sigh and relived just one of the many hellish nights he had survived.

  "We were running a mission about three-and-a-half years ago. It was a shit job, supposed to be nothing more than basic intel gathering carried out under the guise of a supply run."

  "Where?"

  "Where doesn't matter." And even if it did, he couldn't tell her. "But something felt off about it, something I couldn't quite put my finger on."

  "But you still went?"

  "Yeah." Mac laughed, the sound sharp and brittle. "Yeah, we still went."

  He paused, the room around him dimming, morphing into the dark desert. The night sky, an inky black pierced by thousands of cold stars. The rumble of the engines as they moved along a road they had travelled hundreds of times before. The quiet hum of conversation as his men spoke in low tones. An occasional laugh, quickly smothered. Not because anyone else could hear them—they were safely tucked behind inches of plated armor and bullet-proof glass—but because they didn't want SSgt Hardass coming down on them.

  And then—the explosion. Searing heat and the rapid fire of ballistics raining down on them. The stench of blood. Screams and cries cut painfully short.

  Mac blinked and the desert night disappeared, morphed back into the four walls and ceiling of his den. He stared at a spot on the far wall and cleared his throat before continuing.

  "We were ambushed, from both sides. All hell broke loose. When it was over, five of my men were dead. Two of them—" He stopped, cleared his throat. "We found out later that two of them died because their vests had been compromised. The plates shattered, completely disintegrated, allowing the bullets to, uh, to pass through. One of the kids died because a piece of the fucking plate itself pierced his heart when it shattered."

  Mac closed his eyes, pictured the faces of each kid that had died that night, each life he had been responsible for. Remembering them. Always remembering. He pulled in a deep breath, opened his eyes and finally met TR's gaze.

  And God help him, she was crying, silent tears streaming down her face as she stared at him. The horror he'd felt that night reflected in her eyes and he wanted nothing more than to go to her. To pull her into his arms and tell her it was okay.

  To have her wrap her own arms around him and tell him he was okay. That he was here. Alive.

  Alive...but not living. Not until he'd met TR. And even then, he'd tried to push her away.

  Yes, all he wanted to do was hold her, be held by her. But not yet. The story wasn't finished yet.

  He looked away, focused on that spot on the far wall once more.

  "We found out later that the vests were faulty. That the manufacturer knew they were faulty but distributed them anyway. They'd been awarded the highest bid even though there had been proof, right from the start, that the vests were faulty."

  Anger from that day, from the months after, coursed through Mac. His hands curled into fists and he had to force himself to relax. To stay calm. To finish the story. "There was rumor that your Senator was taking kickbacks from the manufacturer, that he arranged for them to win the bid even though he knew there were issues."

  Another deep breath, searching for that much-needed control. "I was called to testify at the hearing six months after the incident."

  "Did—did anything happen?" TR's voice, soft and hesitant. He looked over at her, saw the tracks of her tears—dry now—streaking her face. She reached up, wiped her cheeks, curled her hands back in her lap.

  "No. Nothing. The DoD awarded the next contract to a new manufacturer but that was it. The evidence was all circumstantial. They got away with murder. All of them—including your Senator."

  A flash of anger lit her eyes. "He's not my Senator. Stop saying it that way."

  "You need to understand how dangerous he is, TR."

  She shook her head, either dismissing his concern—or dismissing him. "Why don't I remember hearing any of this? Why is he still serving if he was implicated in accepting kickbacks and everything else?"

  Daryl spoke up, probably realizing that Mac was close to losing his shit and needed a few minutes to calm the fuck down. "There was no solid proof. The hearing lasted less than two days and was buried in the media. And you need something a lot more damaging than accepting a few kickbacks to oust a Senator that's been around as long as he has—and who has the connections he does."

  "But if he was guilty—"

  "Doesn't matter. The same rules we're used to don't apply in those circles—especially when there's no hard proof."

  TR leaned against the arm of the sofa, one hand over her mouth, her brows pulled low over her eyes. Her gaze was focused inward, no doubt sorting through everything she'd been told, trying to fit the pieces into a neat little box.

  Yeah, good luck with that.

  She finally looked over at Mac, her head tilted to the side as she chewed on her lower lip. "So when he saw you at the party, he already knew you were retired from the military?"

  "Sweetheart, he's the reason I'm retired. You don't go up against someone with his connection and power and come out unscathed."

  "So he was deliberately taunting you? Insulting you?"

  Mac nodded. "Yeah. And probably sending me a not-so-subtle reminder of the power he holds."

  "Power." TR huffed, the sound filled with disdain. "I'm sorry, but the man I spoke to on the phone sounds about as powerful as an eighty-year-old man at the end of a two-day marathon."

  "TR, dammit, do not underestimate how dangerous he is—"

  "But you heard him, Mac. He sounded old. Frail. Confused. He remembers meeting me at the party but not our interview—"

  "Yeah. And do you remember what you said to me at the party? You remember telling me he creeped you out? That he was totally different than the man you interviewed?" Mac folded his arms in front of him, dug his fingers into his biceps to keep from hitting something in frustration. "I don't care how he sounded on the phone. I don't want you
meeting with him tomorrow."

  "I have to. That's the only way we're going to find out what's going on."

  "No. Absolutely not—"

  "You don't have a say in this, Mac."

  They squared off, staring at each other as heavy silence settled over the room. Mac didn't give a shit that they had an audience, didn't give a shit that he was two seconds away from totally losing it and going all caveman on TR. She was not going tomorrow, not if he had any say in it—

  "Um, yeah. About all that—"

  Mac turned to Chaos, ready to tear his head off. "What?" He barked the word, loud and sharp, heard it bounce off the walls and echo around the room. And damn if that crazy fucker didn't smile at him, like he knew he was five seconds away from death at Mac's hands and didn't give a shit.

  "I got some intel on that email you forwarded earlier."

  Daryl silenced Mac with a quick slice of his hand then turned to Chaos. "You tracked it?"

  "No, not yet. Whoever sent it did a damn good job of rerouting it. But I looked into that name. Dr. Matthew Kettle."

  "Yeah? And?"

  Chaos sat back, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face as everyone focused on him. "Turns out the good doctor specializes in alternative treatments for Alzheimer's."

  "Alzheimer's?" Daryl's voice reflected the same surprise Mac felt tearing through him. "Are you fucking shitting me? He has Alzheimer's?"

  "Yeah. And while whoever sent those emails is damn good at covering their tracks, the good doctor has no idea how to secure his patient records. The Senator was diagnosed a few years ago and has recently starting showing signs of rapid decline. How he's even functioning is beyond me. I wouldn't be surprised if someone is in the background helping him because from what I read, in another month, maybe two, he'll be lucky to remember his own name."

  "Jesus fucking Christ. That would explain a lot." Daryl swore, the whispered oath vibrating around the room with its implications. TR frowned, her gaze bouncing from Daryl to Chaos to Mac.

  "I don't understand. Why would that explain anything that's going on now?"

  "People with Alzheimer's lose all memory. Short-term first, then long-term. It doesn't just affect their mental state—it affects them physically, too. It can cause personality changes. They can suffer from behavioral issues. And paranoia." Mac's brief explanation didn't even begin to cover the disease—they would be here all night if he tried to go into a full explanation. And even then, there would still be too much left out.

  "I still don't understand what that has to do with everything else going on."

  "If he has Alzheimer's—and there's no reason to believe he doesn't—he's become a liability to anyone he's worked with. Anyone who's dealing on the shady side of business, that is."

  "I still don't understand. If he doesn't remember anything, why would be a liability?"

  "Because they still don't understand how the disease works. He may go days without remembering anything then have a lucid moment where he tells anyone who will listen everything he's done. And some patients with Alzheimer's can suffer from extreme paranoia. The problem is, there's no way to tell who—or when. Which makes him a liability."

  TR frowned, nodded. Shook her head. "Okay, I get that. But again, a liability to whom?"

  Daryl leaned forward, the picture of patience as he took over the explanation. "To the company that sold that piece of land to Uncle Sam, that's who. The government might overpay for a lot of things, but they're not paying that much money for twelve acres. Not unless someone is getting paid off."

  He turned to Mac. "Which brings me to what we were discussing on the phone earlier before you hung up. Chaos did some more digging, found something you might be interested in."

  Mac clenched his jaw, swallowed back his frustration at the man sitting across the room with that smug-ass expression on his face. "Like what?"

  And damn Chaos for smiling—not at him, but at TR. "That company who sold the property? They don't exist."

  TR sat back as if she'd been slapped. Mac bit back a smile, recognizing that look on her face. Chaos was ten seconds away from being lit into. Good. Mac needed some entertainment right about now.

  "Excuse me? Yeah, they do. I'm not an idiot and I know how to do my job. Don't you think I actually looked into that?"

  "I'm sure you did. And I'm sure you found everything they wanted you to find. But they still don't exist, not anywhere else but on paper." Chaos shifted, his attention moving from TR to Mac. "I'm still digging with a little help from a friend but I worked a hunch and decided to move in reverse."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "That company that manufactured those defective vests?"

  "Yeah, what about them? They went bankrupt and disappeared."

  "On paper, maybe. They laid low then resurfaced six months after the hearings. And I'm about three dots away from connecting them to the company that sold that land."

  Mac held his tongue, allowing the information to sink in. It was a stretch—but not impossible. And it fit.

  And, even more importantly, his gut wasn't rolling in turmoil, screaming that it was wrong.

  "So this is all connected to those damn vests?"

  Chaos shrugged. "Maybe. I mean, if the company deliberately hid the evidence that would implicate the Senator, why not? Think about it. Wouldn't you take the fall if you knew there was a hell of a payout at the end? Especially when you know nothing would happen to you? They filed bankruptcy. That was it."

  "Yeah, maybe. Except that payout isn't all that much. To us, it is. But to some big corporation? That's nothing."

  "Not if they reinvented themselves and got back into the game. Not if they were awarded even more contracts."

  "Were they?"

  Chaos shrugged again, but that smug smile reappeared in his face. "I don't know yet but my hunch says I'm right."

  "Son of a bitch." Mac ran both hands over his face, blew out a heavy sigh as he tried to process everything. Hunches. Speculations. Gut feelings. They had all of that and more. What they didn't have was evidence—and without the evidence, without hard, concrete, proof, none of it meant anything.

  And even with proof, it might still mean nothing.

  The silence was interrupted by the sound of TR clearing her throat. Mac looked over at her—not just Mac, but everyone else in the room, too. Daryl, Chaos, Boomer, Wolf.

  She cleared her throat again and fidgeted on the sofa, like suddenly being the center of attention made her uncomfortable. She finally faced Mac, focused her attention on him. "This is all really interesting but—what does any of it have to do with me?"

  "You're the one working on the story."

  "But it was just supposed to be a small story. I told you, no more than a few column inches." Her voice rose an octave, the tone filled with disbelief. With surprise. With denial. Mac wanted to go over to her, pull her into his arms and tell her he'd protect her. That nothing would happen to her.

  But he couldn't do that yet. Not here. Not now.

  It was Boomer who answered her question, his own voice calm and reassuring in spite of the words. "Somebody somewhere thinks you know something. Or wants you to know something, which would explain those emails you received."

  "But I don't."

  "They don't know that, though, do they?"

  "We need to figure out where those emails came from." Daryl nodded toward Chaos, who pushed to his feet.

  "I'm on it."

  The other men stood as well, started heading toward the door as if Daryl's earlier nod had somehow signaled the end of this impromptu meeting. Even TR stood—but it wasn't to leave.

  "What about my meeting tomorrow with the Senator?"

  Mac pushed away from the desk, already shaking his head. "You're not going."

  "Yeah, I am. I have to, Mac."

  "Dammit, TR—"

  "I think she needs to go."

  Mac spun toward Daryl, ready to rip him a new one. "Are you out of your fucking mind?"


  Daryl's gaze met his for a long time. Silent. Intense. Commanding. He finally broke eye contact and motioned for the other men to leave before turning back to Mac. "You need to look at this objectively."

  "Bullshit. I don't need to look it at all. She's not going."

  TR appeared at his side, anger flashing in her eyes. "Mac, you don't get to decide what I do or don't do."

  "TR, dammit. You have no idea what could happen. No idea what you're getting yourself into."

  "It's a meeting, Mac. That's it. And it might be my chance to learn something."

  "About what? Some stupid fucking story?" Mac's voice escalated, his anger and worry finally erupting. "Is that what this is about? You're going to risk your life over a few hundred fucking words?"

  TR's face was a study in different expressions. Shock. Disbelief. Hurt.

  Anger.

  She clenched her jaw, that stubborn chin lifting a few inches in defiance. Even the slender fingers of one hand curled inward, forming a fist that Mac fully expected to feel clip his jaw at any second.

  But she didn't swing at him. She didn't even say anything, just simply turned on her heel and walked out of the room. Not stormed out, or stomped. Just...walked. Calmly, like the same emotions raging through him weren't raging through her.

  He listened to her steps as she climbed the stairs, followed their sound as she moved along the hallway to the bedroom—then slammed the door so hard, he felt the vibration in his feet.

  "Fuck!"

  "You handled that well."

  "Fuck you." Mac pushed past Daryl, ready to go after TR and...he didn't know what. He just knew he had to do something. Daryl grabbed his arm, stopping him.

  It was a damn foolish move because Daryl knew Mac would have no problem ripping it from his socket. But the man didn't flinch, didn't show the least bit of concern when Mac tensed then shifted his weight, ready to break free.