Maliki (Guardian Defenders Book 2)

by Kris Michaels

  Maliki

  Guardian Defender Series

  Kris Michaels

  Copyright © 2020 by Kris Michaels

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except where permitted by law.

  If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, then you are reading an illegal pirated copy. If you would be concerned about working for no pay, then please respect the author’s work. Make sure that you are only reading a copy that has been officially released by the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, Orr locales is entirely coincidental.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Also by Kris Michaels

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  "Why am I seeing this?" Jason King, the CEO of Guardian Security, lifted his eyes to the video screen. His brothers, Jacob, Jared and Joseph, stared back at him through the monitors. He tapped another screen embedded in his desk and opened the attachment to the email his sister Jewell had sent.

  "A private investigator, a damn good one, has been digging around Dr. Blue's past. From what Jewell has been able to determine, the investigator is out of Connecticut. He's former CIA and he knows his shit. She's been able to block his searches, but he's persistent and resourceful." Joseph King's voice held a tinge of respect.

  "He's looking for Mal? For what purpose?"

  "No, he's looking for Harrison M. Boswell, VI."

  Jason narrowed his eyes and stared at the screen in front of him. "Who the fuck is that?"

  "Maliki—before he walked away from his family.”

  Jason took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Fuck, I knew that. Long hours are making me crazy. Sorry. Okay, why is this guy trying to find Harrison M. Boswell, VI?"

  "We checked as far as we could without spooking the guy. He's being paid by Mal's mom and, as of now, has only been searching for his whereabouts, no other inquiries." Jared flipped a piece of paper as he spoke.

  Jason leaned back and sighed. "If memory serves, he walked away from that life because of a situation at the medical practice his father owns."

  "Correct." Jacob leaned forward and lifted his tablet. "According to what we have on record, his father, a surgeon of note, was operating on a patient. The procedure took a bad turn due to his negligence, and the patient died on the table. Rather than admitting his culpability, he blamed the surgeon assisting."

  "Who happened to be Mal." Venom dripped from Joseph’s words. "Not an upstanding fucking father-figure if you ask me."

  "I didn't ask, but I do agree. If I recall correctly, Mal was eventually cleared when several of the operating room staff came forward, but the professional damage was already done." Jason sighed and leaned forward. "Two options for Mal here, gentlemen. Option one, we tell him what the fuck is going on, let him make the determination to contact his family, or at a minimum, this investigator. Or, option two, at Mal's request, we block this guy. Shut him the fuck down. My vote is for letting Mal deal with his shit his way."

  Jared's head snapped up. "What about Stratus? They tried to take him out. If he decides to go home..."

  Jason placated his brother, "We're pretty damn sure he's not a target. Essentially, he was low hanging fruit. Stratus has bigger things to worry about now, but it is something to consider."

  Jacob added, "If he decides to go home, Mal could use his old identity. Stratus isn't looking for Harrison Boswell, VI. It would add a layer of protection."

  Joseph nodded. "True. I agree. He needs to know his mother is trying to find him. Let him make the call and support whatever he decides to do. It is the least we can do. That man has been through shit, first with his old team, and then with Stratus. We need to make sure we do right by him."

  "We do right by all our people." Jason didn't like the insinuation that Guardian didn't.

  Joseph snorted. "Not what I meant. Don't get your boxers in a wad. He's my asset, and I'm being protective. It's what you pay me to do now."

  "Fuck, we're paying you?" Jacob's high-pitched question pushed needed levity into the situation. Joseph threw some colorful words in Jacob's direction.

  When they'd settled down, Joseph continued, "I agree. This is Mal's life. He decides. We shield him if he doesn't want to be found, or we give him the time, and let him go home to determine what the fuck is going on." Joseph leaned back in his chair.

  Jason put his glasses back on. "Concur, but only if you think Ember can handle the workload at The Rose. I don't want any further disclosure on the facility, so bringing in another medical professional is not an option."

  Joseph shook his head and gave a humorless laugh. "Ember could handle the caseload in her sleep. She's worked in some of the busiest emergency rooms in the nation. Our dehydration, sprains, pains, and minor boo-boos are a cakewalk for her. Those two already do rock-paper-scissors to see who gets to treat the cases we do have."

  "Do we need to consider relocating Mal?" Jacob sighed the question.

  Joseph drew a breath and released it before he said, "Not until he's ready. We told him The Rose was his. We owe him."

  Jacob concurred, "We do."

  "True," Jared added.

  "Then we have a plan. Joseph, you're on deck. You give the facts to Mal and let him decide what to do. You have the contact number for that private dick. Give it to Mal when you brief him on his options. We'll be available for assistance if he wants to go home. If he wants to shut this guy down, it will be done with emphasis." Jason waited until his brothers acknowledged and signed off before he shut down the video link.

  Fuck, would Maliki Blue ever catch a fucking break? The clusterfuck of that situation with Mal's team had been unfortunate and unprecedented. Guardian had done everything right. Every precaution in place had either failed or had been disregarded when the events of that night had unfolded. That failed mission had cost the lives of three team members, and the one person Maliki had been able to bring home alive, well...

  Jason shook off the lingering ghosts of his own failed mission. He'd been able, for the most part, to put his past to rest. He prayed Maliki would be able to do the same. Perhaps the man should start with the specters that had nothing to do with Guardian.

  "Don't be a fucking wimp, Doc, move your ass! Hustle! Move it!" Dolan yelled at him from his position at the base of the hill.

  Fucking son of a bitch. Maliki dug deep and pushed his feet through the shifting sands. Sweat and sand caked his face, hands, and arms. He dropped at the top of the obstacle and shouldered his weapon. Two exhales later, he drew a breath into his lungs and held it. His finger squeezed back. One… two… three. Fuck, yes! All three hit inside the ten ring. He shoved the selector back onto 'safe’ and launched from his prone position. He sprinted down the man-made berm, pounded across the half mile distance to the finish line,
and staggered to a stop.

  Hands on his knees, he gulped lungfuls of dry, hot, air before grabbing the liter-sized bottle of water pushed in front of his face.

  "Damn fine, for a pansy-ass office worker."

  He rolled his eyes up and, in between pants, managed his standard response, "Fuck you."

  Joseph laughed and shook his head. "Nah, the wife would get pissed."

  "She would, indeed." Maliki managed to straighten, took a swig of the water, and poured half the bottle over his head. They started physical training before the sun came up, but once that bastard broke the horizon, the Arizona desert went nuclear in less time than it took to strike a match. He watched as the next Guardian crested the berm and raced to the finish line. The distant sounds of gunfire were so common since training began, they barely registered.

  "Why aren't you on the course?" Mal nodded his head in the direction of the current physical training run. It wasn't like Joseph not to be running the course or manning one of the overwatch positions.

  "Had a conference call with Archangel." Joseph handed him an ice-cold cloth from the freezer by the wall of the building that marked the end of the training run. He draped it over his head. "Fuck, that feels good."

  "Ain't even hot yet, Doc." Joseph leaned against the wall.

  He watched as others pushed through to the finish and were greeted with water and assessed by the operatives that had finished and a small cadre of trainers. It wasn't in Joseph's character to remain once he'd said his piece, so obviously the man had something else on his mind. Mal cocked his head. "What's up?"

  "Got someone looking into your background. It isn't Stratus, so put that to bed."

  He froze with the water bottle halfway to his mouth. His eyes snapped to Joseph, waiting for the man to continue.

  Joseph shrugged. "Your parents are looking for you."

  He used the water as an excuse not to talk and took a long, hard pull from the bottle. He closed his eyes as if that would block the memories Joseph's words unleashed. His father's betrayal had left gaping wounds that still hadn't closed. Hurt had solidified into hatred and that hatred had pushed him into his new life. Even though he'd let those emotions go, the pain still echoed deep inside him.

  He recapped the water bottle and swiped the towel through his hair, wiping the sand from his face, neck, arms and hands. He stepped over and placed his M4 on one of the many outdoor cleaning tables. With practiced ease, he removed the magazine, pulled the bolt to the rear—ejecting the 5.56 caliber shell—and placed the live round back into the clip. Joseph moseyed over and leaned against the wooden table, watching as he disassembled his weapon. Upper receiver and lower receiver separated, hand guards snapped off, he removed the bolt assembly group from the upper receiver and systematically took each piece apart, laying it in precise order on the table. He screwed the bore brush onto the end of a long charging handle and shoved the bastard down the barrel of the weapon with a little more force than necessary.

  "We can do this one of two ways." Joseph grabbed his bolt assembly and a brush, dabbed some solvent on the tip of the bristles and started cleaning the piece of metal.

  Mal glanced at his superior-slash-friend. "Yeah? We? Interesting. How is Guardian involved with this?"

  Joseph's evil chuckle spanned the space between them. "We're involved because you are one of us. Just that simple. If you want to know what the fuck is going on, we got your back. If you want this guy shut down, we'll do it—with emphasis."

  "There is nothing from my past that I care to revisit." Mal switched from the bore brush and sent a patch of fabric down the barrel, collecting the loosened sediment.

  "I figured." Joseph set the bolt down and picked up the firing pin, giving it the same attention. "Care for some advice?"

  He put the barrel of the weapon down and picked up a cloth to wipe the inside of the hand guards. "Fucking sand gets everywhere."

  "It does." Joseph reached for the lower receiver, depressed the spring-fed buffer assembly, and popped it out to wipe it off.

  The intrusion of his past into his life, such as it was now, sucked. It sucked on so many levels he didn't want to try to understand how much mental damage he was pushing under a rock by not addressing it. His father was a class 'A' bastard. The motherfucker would have ruined him without a second thought. Hell, for over two months, he'd done just that. Until someone was brave enough to talk. He still wondered why that nurse and anesthesiologist decided to come forward and what his father had done to those people in retaliation, because the motherfucker would have taken them down. To top off that shitshow, his fiancée dumped his ass because she couldn't be linked to such scandal. Yeah, the superficial life he'd led was all gloss and no substance. He used what money he'd banked and the trust fund he'd been given by his grandparents to disappear. He'd grieved the loss of his family, of what had been, but he'd moved on. Why the fuck would any of them want to contact him? What could be gained? Nothing.

  He watched Joseph wipe away the solvent he'd applied. "What's your advice?"

  Joseph looked up at him. "When my old man died, there was shit between us that was unsaid. I'd give almost anything to have a conversation with him. Granted, I don't know your past, and I don't want to know, but think about it before you close the door. You've got time. Here's the number of the private detective looking for you. Maybe he has some answers that will allow you to make a decision." Joseph placed a small piece of paper with a telephone number on it by his weapon.

  He reassembled his weapon as Joseph meandered to the next table and spoke to one of the operatives currently cleaning his M4. The guy looked damn familiar for some reason. He watched Joseph and the man he knew from… somewhere. Muscle memory put the weapon together. Lord knows his brain wasn't engaged in the action. He focused long enough to function check the damn thing prior to turning it, and the remainder of his ammo, into the operative who was acting as armorer today. They rotated the duty, and he'd filled a few shifts of issuing and retrieving the weapons. The guy he thought he knew was behind him in line. Mal stepped aside and leaned against the wall.

  "Have we met before?" The man was so damn familiar...

  "No, don't think so. Dan Collins." The guy extended his hand.

  Mal shook it and stopped. "Has anyone ever told you that you look like–"

  The guy laughed. "Yeah, I get that all the time. Would I be here covered in sand if I were?"

  "Nah, I guess not." Mal shot the shit with the guy for a few more minutes before he ambled back to the clinic. It wasn't like he was busy. Hell, even if Ember wasn't here, he'd be bored to tears. Thank God Joseph let him train with the men going through the advanced team prep. He understood the way Guardian was reorganizing. Teams of two. Compatible units that were in complete synchronization. Lethal and agile, a strike force that could position and act before most teams could set up. Guardian was gearing up for offensive strikes instead of the defensive positioning of the past. The organization, while massive, was adept at making changes. It wasn't encumbered by red tape or shareholders demanding a profit. Guardian answered to one person, the owner, David Xavier, and that man was a certified genius. He wanted to be part of the new structure.

  Mal needed to get his ass back to his small home, because until he developed the skills he needed, he was still acting as the training site's doctor. His shoulders lifted when the siren blared signaling the range was now safe. No more live fire today. A small smile tilted the corner of his lips as a little boy ran from the clinic to the outbuildings where Joseph was making the rounds. Every morning it was the same routine, as soon as the siren rang indicating the range was safe, Blake King found his old man. He could remember idolizing his father like that. The smile and warm feelings that Blake's race across the compound elicited died with that thought.

  He entered the clinic and checked the work sheets for the day. Some stitches to check and a cast to be removed, along with x-rays. Assuming no one was injured during the training runs, it was going to be slow. Ag
ain. He flipped the sheet over. Ah... Tempest was due for his physical today. The man had been making strides in his physical recovery. They were watching his blood work closely. After so much time in such deplorable conditions, his body had paid a hefty price. He'd make sure to talk to Tempest's psychiatrist via video chat today. Dr. Wheeler and he had been coordinating the man's treatment so they didn't inadvertently derail each other's efforts.

  The door at the end of the hall opened, and Ember emerged from the underground facility. While there were buildings above ground, only a fraction of what existed could be seen by anyone who accessed the complex. In the barren expanses of Arizona, they were almost self-sufficient. Fruits and vegetables grew in climate-controlled buildings topside. A deep aquifer located below the facility supplied them with water. A small solar array produced abundant energy and below ground, the ventilation systems had four different failsafe measures.

  "Did you see Blake?" Ember asked, exasperated.

  He lifted his finger and pointed to the door. "He flew out of here the second the live-fire siren went off."

  "I swear, that child..." Ember chuckled and checked the board he'd recently perused. "Wow, we're slammed today." Sarcasm filled her words.

  "No doubt. I'll do Tempest's physical; you take the stitches and cast."

  "Deal. No offense, but I think you should shower." She wrinkled her nose and motioned him away.

  "I was heading there. I'll be back in an hour or so."

  "I'll try to hold down the fort; might test my limitations." Ember flicked on her computer and sat down.

  "You know where to find me if you need me." He chuckled at her grunt and made his way to the back of the hall. He slid the shelving unit to the side and stepped into the elevator, punching the only button on the damn thing. It lowered him into the cavernous belly of The Rose and the spider web of an immense training complex. The center, where he was now, opened into a common area. Here, the operatives ate, chilled, and watched television. Of course, the trainees were responsible for setting up a schedule to take turns in the mess hall feeding the people currently training at the station. To the immediate right were Joseph's offices and those of his staff. He'd declined an office down here. He didn't need one.