The Protector: MAC: A Cover Six Security Novel

by Lisa B. Kamps

  "But what if he misses me?"

  He ran his mouth along her jaw, brushed his lips against hers. "Tough shit, he'll get over it."

  "That's not very nice."

  He trailed his mouth along her neck, dipped his hand under her shirt and thumbed the hardened peak of one nipple. "Ask me if I give a fuck."

  The breath hitched in her chest, her flesh pebbling everywhere he touched. Everywhere she wanted him to touch. "There...there you go again with that language."

  "Yeah? Maybe I should stop." Mac straightened, brushed his mouth against hers then trailed a path to her ear.

  "M-maybe."

  And he did—but not before describing every little thing he wanted to do to her, in deliciously graphic detail the way only he could.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Two months later.

  A leather-bound notebook hit the conference desk in front of Mac. He looked up, frowned at Daryl standing a foot away, then stared at the book without touching it.

  "What's this?"

  "The son-of-a-bitch kept a journal."

  Mac didn't ask who—he didn't need to. The man. Nelson.

  They knew his full name now, knew the basics of his identity: Scott Nelson, age 42. Born in Dayton, Ohio. Graduated high school, moved to Massachusetts. Enrolled in college but never graduated.

  Moved to Virginia, where he tried to enlist—everywhere. Army. Marines. Navy. Air Force. Coast Guard. But none of the branches wanted him—which should have been a red flag somewhere. Started working private security—that fact had made them all cringe—then somehow ended up working for the same defense contractor that had been responsible for the defective vests.

  And kept working for them when they filed bankruptcy and reformed six months later. For reasons Mac still didn't understand, he'd been the middle man, the point of contact between the Senator and the contractor.

  Yes, they had the basic information—but not the details. Why had he focused on TR? Had he had anything to do with the Senator's death, or was that just some wild coincidence? And was the death of Randall Willet, the defense contractor's CEO, somehow connected to Nelson?

  How had Mac shown up on his radar? What had caused the obsession?

  And the biggest question of all: why? Why had any of it happened? Was it a simple matter of paranoia on all sides when TR had been given what should have been a simple assignment? Or had the game already been set into motion?

  Mac wasn't sure they'd ever find out. Had resigned himself to never knowing the answers.

  He stared at the journal. It was the size of a regular notebook only much thicker. Covered in dark red leather, the spine worn and cracked, the corners bent and frayed.

  Just the sight of it sent cold chills skating down his spine.

  He closed the file he'd been working on, placed the pen at a precise angle next to it, then looked at Daryl. "Where did they find it?"

  "A safe deposit box he kept in his mother's name."

  "Did you read it?"

  Daryl's amber eyes darkened, flashed with disgust. "I did."

  "And?"

  "I have the summary if you want it. But I thought, given how personal this was for you, that you might want to read it yourself. That you might want to let TR read it."

  Was Daryl fucking serious? No way did he want TR reading this—especially if the disgust in Daryl's eyes was an indication of what might be between those pages. The nightmares no longer snuck up on her when she was sleeping; he sure as hell didn't want to do anything that might cause them to come back.

  He shook his head, pushed the notebook away with the tip of one finger. "No thanks, I'll pass."

  "You sure about that?"

  "Yeah. Positive."

  Daryl nodded but made no move to grab the journal. In fact, he didn't move at all, just stood there, staring at Mac until he finally looked up. "What?"

  "How's she doing?"

  "Better. She still sees a therapist once a week, although I think her time at the range is helping more than her counseling sessions." Mac laughed, the sound filled with amazement. "Give her another or week or two and she'll be almost as good as you."

  "Which means she's already better than you."

  Mac ignored the good-natured jibe. "She keeps asking for her concealed carry permit."

  "Is she ready?"

  Mac didn't answer. He didn't want to answer. Yes, she was ready. But the idea of TR carrying a concealed weapon—it didn't sit well with him. Not because he had an issue with it in general—

  But because he didn't like the idea that she felt she needed additional protection. He should be all the protection she needed.

  Mac had made the mistake of telling her that then had been forced to sit down and listen while she lectured him. He even remembered some of it—especially the end of it, when he pulled her across his desk and kissed every inch of that body, starting at her feet and working his way up.

  It had taken a long, long time to move past the halfway mark.

  He gave himself a mental shake, forced his mind back to Daryl's question.

  Was she ready?

  "Yeah, she's ready. I don't like it but she's ready."

  "I can push the paperwork through when it's time. And if it makes you feel better, I can run her through the eval."

  "She's been through it already."

  "Not with you." It was a statement, not a question—because the last time Mac had taken her to the range hadn't ended well. Not because TR was doing anything wrong, but because he'd been a nervous wreck and couldn't focus on teaching her.

  "No, not me." Mac clenched his jaw, grabbed the pen and twisted it between his hands. "Chaos."

  Daryl laughed, the rich sound filling the warm air of the conference room. "No shit."

  "I know. I never saw that one coming."

  "Stranger things have happened."

  Mac couldn't disagree, not when he was living proof of the statement. TR loved him. Why, he didn't know. But he didn't question it anymore, just accepted it.

  And did his damndest every day to show her how much he treasured that precious gift. To show her how much she was loved in return.

  Daryl turned, started to leave, but Mac called him back. Pointed at the journal in the middle of the room. "You forgot something."

  "We have it for twenty-four hours. Figured I'd leave it there. You know—just in case."

  Just in case.

  Mac returned to his paperwork but couldn't focus on it, not when his gaze kept going back to the journal.

  Twenty minutes later, he closed the door to his office and settled behind his desk. Opened the journal and started reading.

  And lost himself in one man's twisted descent into insanity.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The alarm beeped, signaling the front door had opened. TR glanced at the series of monitors in the kitchen, the small twist of anxiety morphing into excitement when Mac's image filled the screen.

  She glanced at the oven clock, made a mental note of the time, started heading toward the hallway. Changed her mind and went back to the stove to set the timer.

  Because the last time she'd made dinner, they had both lost track of time and the baked chicken had turned into blackened chicken, extra crispy.

  Not that either one of them had complained.

  She turned toward the hallway again but she was too late, Mac was already entering the kitchen. She heard him before she saw him, his steps solid. Steady. He'd changed the way he walked around the house now—for her. So she wouldn't be startled whenever he suddenly appeared behind her or beside her, his steps so silent that she never heard him.

  Her heart leapt in her chest when he turned the corner. Mac. Her Mac. Tall, broad. Strong and sure. Always there for her. Not perfect—far from it. He was a diamond-in-the-rough, with language that could make a sailor blush and a sense of humor that not many people understood. No, he wasn't perfect—but he was perfect for her.

  She tilted her head, noticed the weariness
in his eyes. The ends of his hair were damp and his jaw freshly-shaved, the tactical pants and black t-shirt slightly wrinkled, the creases barely noticeable. Not the ones he'd left for work in, then, but the ones he kept in his go-bag, tightly rolled to take up minimum space.

  She started to ask him what had happened, why he'd had to take a shower and change clothes. The words never came because he walked over to her, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her. Deep, languid. Drinking her in. Claiming her, as he did every time he kissed her, touched her.

  She congratulated herself on remembering to set the oven timer then swallowed a groan when he pulled away and looked down at her. The expression in his eyes—haunted, troubled—made her stomach roll with dread.

  "What is it? Did something happen? Was someone hurt?" She was more aware of what could happen to him now, what could happen to any of them. Mac, Daryl, Jon. Chaos and Boomer and Wolf. Ox, Bull. Zen. She had joked that day two months ago, sitting in the car with Chaos, calling them a zoo. But they were her zoo now, and the thought of anything happening to them—

  "No, nothing like that." She had just breathed a small sigh of relief when he grabbed her hand and held it between his. "We need to talk."

  She yanked her hand back, folded her arms in front of her. "That's never a good way to start a conversation."

  Mac frowned, some of the torment leaving his eyes. "What?"

  "Conversations that start with we need to talk don't usually end well." She hesitated, chewed on her lower lip, sighed again with just a hint of drama. "Are you dumping me? Did I finally get on your last nerve—"

  "TR, what the hell? Where do you even come up with this stuff?"

  "I don't know. But at least you don't look like the world's going to end now."

  Mac growled, pulled her in for another kiss, this one hard and quick. Then he picked her up, carried her over to the large trestle table, and lowered her to the bench.

  He straddled the bench next to her, ran the tip of one finger along her arm...but didn't say a word. TR tilted her head, leaned forward to catch his gaze.

  "There was something I wanted to talk to you about, too."

  "What?"

  "Uh-uh. You first."

  Mac nodded. Sat back. Looked away and frowned. "I read Nelson's journal."

  "Who?" But she knew. As soon as she asked the question, she knew. Nelson. The man. A sudden chill settled over her and she hugged herself against it. "What—what did it say?"

  "It was—" He stopped, frowned, shook his head. "I felt contaminated after I read it. Dirty. Even that's not the right word. The man was insane, probably had been for a long time. And he got progressively worse. Obsessed with the idea of power."

  "With power? That's why he did what he did? For power?"

  "Not like that. Like..." The furrow between his eyes deepened. "A mythical power of some sort. He was convinced he could absorb a person's power—their essence—by killing them. The stronger they were, the more powerful he would become. And how he killed them made a difference."

  TR pressed a palm against her cheek, felt the thin line of the fresh scar. "A knife. That's why he was using the knife."

  "Yeah. I think so."

  "But why me? Why you? Why any of it?"

  "The Senator hired him to get rid of you. He was convinced you knew about the deal. That you had evidence that would implicate him, that would lead back three years ago and prove his complicity."

  "But I didn't. It was only supposed to be a small story—"

  "He didn't know that. The disease was eating at his brain, increasing the guilt and paranoia that had been growing for at least three years, probably longer. I think that's why he sent you the emails—to flush you out. To find out exactly what you did know."

  TR shook her head. Not in denial—there had been too much evidence for her to deny the Senator's role in everything, including hiring someone to set the explosion that caused the fire at her apartment—but in dismay. Everything that had happened—her accident, the fire, Chaos being shot, her being injured—all of it was because of one man's paranoia and greed. Because he had been too afraid to face the consequences of his actions—actions that had caused the lives of dozens of soldiers overseas, if not more.

  "But why you? Why did the man—" TR swallowed, forced herself to say his name, "—why did Nelson focus on you? You weren't part of any of it."

  "That night I took you home. When your car was broken into."

  "What?"

  "He was watching your apartment. Saw me go in with you. Saw me leave. He learned who I was at the New Year's Eve party—"

  "He was there?"

  "Yeah, apparently. The Senator gave him my information and that was it: a new obsession was born. I became the last worthy opponent he needed to conquer in order to achieve what he thought of as the ultimate power."

  TR studied Mac's face, searching for what he wasn't telling her. She knew he was hiding information, glossing over the details. Would he tell her if she asked? Yes, he would. He might not want to but he would. The question was: did she want to know?

  No. No, she didn't. Maybe later, a month from now, or even a year. But not now. She didn't need to know. Knowing the details, the horror of whatever had been written in the pages of that journal, wouldn't help her.

  "What about the Senator's death? Was he behind that somehow?"

  Mac shook his head. "I don't know. He alluded to it, claimed he had somehow manipulated the Senator into aimlessly stepping into traffic, but I don't know how. I'm not even sure I believe it. The writings were..." He hesitated, dropped his gaze to the table and ran his hand back and forth along the edge. "I think he was pretty far gone by that point."

  TR closed her hand over his, brought it to her mouth and brushed her lips along the back of his knuckles. "You shouldn't have read it."

  "I needed the answers."

  "Not at the expense of your peace of mind, Mac."

  He offered her a smile, just a fleeting one that did nothing to dim the shadows in his eyes. "I'll get over it."

  She noticed his word choice. Not he was over it, but that he'd get over it. She shifted positions on the bench, straddling it so she was facing him. Slid forward and draped her legs over his then pressed her mouth against the corner of his. "I love you, Mac."

  His arms came around her, pulling her into a strong hug. "I know, babe. I love you." He pressed a kiss against her forehead then slid back, putting a few inches between them. "Your turn."

  "My turn?"

  "Yeah. You said you had something you wanted to tell me."

  "Oh. Yeah." She cleared her throat, slid back on the bench, and tapped her nails against the smooth wood. Over and over, until one of Mac's hands closed over both of hers, stopping her.

  She looked up, offered him a quick grin, looked away. Took a deep breath. Let it out. "So. You know how I'm essentially homeless right now?"

  A low growl sounded in his chest. "You're not homeless. You have a home. Here. With me."

  "Yeah. Well, good. Because I decided to add jobless to the list, too."

  "What?"

  "I quit today."

  "TR. Why? I thought you loved that job."

  "I did. I do. But I can't work for someone who isn't interested in publishing the entire truth instead of just one side."

  Mac sighed, grabbed her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "You submitted the article."

  "Yeah. And you were right—my editor said no way would it ever see the light of day."

  "I told you they wouldn't print it."

  "I know." And he had, two days ago when she had finished it and let him read it. Six thousand words that would run as a series, delving into everything from the Senator's backroom deals with the defense contractor that had cost lives and ruined careers, to the bribes and kickbacks permeating offices throughout DC that continued to put lives at risk. The article had been filled with facts, with evidence she'd been able to dig up with a little help from Chaos's hacker friend.

 
; Her editor read it...then had promptly shredded it without saying a word. It wasn't until TR had forced the shocked words from her mouth asking him why that she'd been told, in no uncertain terms, that printing an article like that—even a condensed version—would be the death of a small regional paper that focused mostly on human interest features and the occasional special interest piece. That the paper relied too heavily on advertisements to operate and nothing could jeopardize that.

  "So you quit."

  "I did. I scribbled my resignation on a sticky note and slammed it on his desk then walked out."

  Mac squeezed her hand and offered her a small smile. "I would have liked to have seen that."

  TR smiled back, remembering the language she had used. "You would have been proud of me. I sprinkled it with a few f-bombs, just for emphasis."

  Mac laughed, the rich sound warming her. She slid closer, swallowed a groan when he palmed her ass and pulled her against him. "So what are you going to do now?"

  TR wrapped her arms around his neck, fingered the damp ends of his hair. "Send my resume out, see what I can find. In the meantime, I was going to ask Daryl if he was still looking for a receptionist."

  "A what?"

  "You guys still need a receptionist, right?"

  "Yeah but—"

  "Well, I can answer phones better than Boomer any day. And I know how to type."

  "I don't think—"

  "And there's something else I can do better, too."

  Mac narrowed his eyes, no doubt wondering what she was up to. "What's that?"

  "This." She leaned forward and kissed him. Deep. Warm. Needy. Fire exploded between them as the kiss grew, became more intense.

  Filled with promise. With life. With love.

  Neither one of them paid any attention when the oven timer went off. And they didn't complain when they had to go out for their dinner.

  Later.

  Much, much later.

  Epilogue

  Four months later.

  The wedding was a small one...relatively speaking.

  The bride, dressed in a simple white sleeveless dress, the bare toes peeking from the sand painted a bright pink. Her dark hair was pulled up in a soft twist, a handful of tendrils hanging loose behind her neck and framing her face.