by Quinn Avery
The Guard’s Last Watch
A Bexley Squires Mystery
Quinn Avery
Contents
Prologue
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Part II
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Part III
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Next in the Series
Also by Quinn Avery
About the Author
Acknowledgments
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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 for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. Namely: Glock, Marlboros, Chumbawamba, Star Wars, Lexus, Boy Scouts, Harley Davidson, Happy Meal, L.A. Angels, Donny Darko, Princess Leia, Ewok, Sith, Ford Bronco, Chevy Nova, MacBook, Wayfarer, Frogger, Highly Suspect, Groundhog’s Day, Stormtrooper, Barbie, Wookie, Padawan, Tinder
The Guard’s Last Watch: A Bexley Squires Mystery
Copyright © 2020 by Jennifer Naumann. All rights reserved.
Cover: Najla Qamber Designs
Photograph by Jenna Loeva
Model: Michael Dickie
www.QuinnAvery.com
Created with Vellum
Prologue
Baja California, Mexico
October 24th
* * *
Brewer Hawkins woke to a tremendous throbbing at the base of his skull. His eyelids felt as if they’d been glued together. A strong, musty stench burned his nostrils, and his stomach churned angrily. He’d had his share of rough nights, especially over the past couple of years, but this felt different somehow.
Finally able to pry his crusty eyelids open, he found himself spread out across a thin-piled carpet, legs askew, jeans and T-shirt covered in a light dusting of dried dirt. His eyes slowly tracked his surroundings. Piles of crumbling brick were the only things inside the small room beyond a dirty, uncovered mattress resting on a box spring. The dust in the air was so thick with dust that he felt a violent sneeze building in his sinuses. He guessed he was either in an abandoned motel or apartment building.
How the hell did he get there, and why did it feel like someone had taken a sledgehammer to his head?
He reached around to touch the source of his pain, muttering obscenities when he discovered an open wound. Congealed blood stuck to his fingertips. Had he been in a bar fight again?
Then, from the corner of his eye, he caught movement.
Blood, dripping off the side of the mattress.
When he clambered to his feet, the thud in his head became a blinding boom.
Stomach violently clenching, he squeezed his eyes closed.
Maybe he was still asleep, and it was only a nightmare. Though he’d never been a religious man, he prayed it was a nightmare.
He peered out beneath his heavy eyelids once again until the man’s hard features popped back into view. The guy was young, maybe late twenties or early thirties, and lean. Possibly athletic. Hispanic. Dark blue jeans and a light blue button down shirt were accompanied by heavy work boots.
Blood saturated the dirty bedding, spilling down to the floor.
The dark skin between the man’s lifeless eyes puckered around a gunshot wound.
Brewer’s head throbbed with urgency. His stomach threatened to upheave. He’d seen more than his share of dead bodies, but never in the kind of situation where he had no idea what had happened.
Why was he alone in a room with a dead man?
The room spun as Brewer wiped his mouth on his bare forearm. His gaze trailed along the distance between them, stopping on a Glock .40 caliber. He’d owned several guns since leaving the Coast Guard, but never a Glock.
If anyone were to walk in and find them alone in the room together, likely murder weapon between them, they’d assume the worst. But Brewer was no killer. Not since he was active duty, and protected his country at all costs.
Beyond the corpse, a narrow stream of sunlight streamed through dark, heavy curtains, but it wasn’t enough to show a hint of what awaited beyond the four walls of the room.
The last thing he could recall was leaving his repair shop to meet with the president of the Inferno Glory Motorcycle Club. They’d had a few whiskey drinks at a bar near Los Angeles. He had no memories of how he had arrived in that room. When he patted his pockets, he discovered his wallet and cell phone were both missing. Had he been jumped? Why couldn’t he remember anything leading up to that moment? He hadn’t drank anywhere near enough to black out an entire night.
His gut instinct urged him to dispose of the gun in a body of water somewhere. But he couldn’t risk being caught with it in his possession. Removing his dusty T-shirt, he scooped the gun off the carpet to wipe down the grip and slide as best as he could. Then he stood on the pile of bricks and shoved the gun into a crevice. With any luck, no one would think to look up there for a weapon. At least not until he was somewhere far the hell away.
He scanned the room one last time, fearful of any other evidence he’d be leaving behind. As he struggled to get back into his shirt, it occurred to him that he’d likely be leaving strands of hair behind. It was going to take more than luck to get him out of this situation.
He pushed through the room’s only door, revealing a ceramic tiled hallway dim with only a sliver of daylight. Dust particles danced among identical doors lining either side, marked with double numbers. An eerie quietness settles around him, chilling him to the bone.
The sudden urge to bang on each and every door until he found someone to help had him rooted in place, crippled by a rush of paranoia. A place that rundown would only be inhabited by squatters and junkies.
Suddenly an elderly woman appeared at the end of the hallway, the wrinkles on her face deepening as she scowled, speaking rapidly in a foreign tongue. Dark pants and a light blue button down shirt, both of which had seen better days, didn’t do anything to reveal her identity. It was unlikely a place like that had a cleaning staff. Dark-skinned, jet black hair pulled back from her face into a low bun, he guessed her to be Hispanic.
“¡Necesitas irte!” she yelled, motioning to Brewer with the flicker of her hands. “¡Ahora!”
Brewer’s head was groggy, and he was still struggling to stand upright. Spanish, he realized. She’s speaking Spanish. He had a good handle on the language from years of confronting smugglers.
“¿Dónde estoy?” he blurted.
Where am I?
“¿Inglés?” the woman asked with her dark brow raised. When Brewer nodded, the woman’s scowl returned with a frantic wave of her hands. “You go. Go!”
“What is this place? Where are we?”
The hardness to the woman’s dark eyes softened. She shook her head repeatedly.“Un mal lugar, señor. Malo.”
A
bad place.
A fight-or-flight response kicked in as Brewer teetered past the woman toward an unmarked door at the end of the hallway. He expected it to lead into another hallway since it wasn’t a fire door and didn’t say anything about an exit. Shock rippled down his core when he was blasted with sizzling hot air. Worse yet, he was given a view that rendered him immobile.
A Third World village with honest-to-God goats and chickens wandering about unfolded before his eyes.
He nearly choked on the thick air as he took it all in.
He was in Mexico.
How in the hell did he not remember entering another country?
Gathering his wits, he swayed toward the nearest shelter within sight. The hut was made out of sticks and grass, held together by mud, and it reeked of human waste. Most importantly, however, it was empty.
He steadied himself against a post, weighing his options. He needed to get to the nearest civilized city. He could locate the U.S. Consulate, but he had no proof of identity.
There was only one number he could recall off the top of his head.
Consequently, that number belonged to the one person Brewer could count on to help him.
Part I
1
Papaya Springs, California
October 25th
String instruments accompanied by a piano weaved a complicated melody overhead as Bexley sipped her third glass of Prosecco from a crystal flute. The fine dining restaurant’s welcoming atmosphere was a departure from the dives she’d become accustomed to in recent years. It was more her speed if greasy fingers and questionable cooking conditions were involved. Yet it was still easier to acclimate to the dark wallpaper and plush leather chairs among white linens and intricate chandeliers than it was to accept her father’s gregarious smile and pleasant demeanor.
A part of her wasn’t convinced she hadn’t entered some alternate universe the way her sister laughed at the old man’s jokes from across the table, carrying on like he hadn’t been a cold bastard for a majority of their lives. Just hours before, Bexley had been in shock throughout his entire retirement ceremony as his superiors spoke praises of a man who’d been a solid leader and an excellent adviser to those under his command.
Right before her unbelieving eyes, their father had morphed from a hard-nosed Captain in the Navy who’d continued to neglect his daughters even after their mom’s untimely death, to a grandfatherly figure who wanted to fish and travel with his family.
To make matters worse, Bexley constantly felt the questioning gaze of Cineste’s boyfriend from across the table. Ever since the former SEAL had come to Bexley’s rescue when someone used her as target practice outside their condo, not much got past Alex. The way he was frequently able to see right through Bexley’s well-constructed facade was infuriating. The guy worked in construction. Why was his scrutiny so unnerving, like that of a psychotherapist?
Was she still upset over parting ways with her detective boyfriend after they’d essentially started living together? Of course. Did nightmares of being thrown into a trunk and accused of murder still snap her out of a deep sleep? Sometimes. Could she still hear the cries of incarcerated women from the cells around her late at night? On occasion. Did paranoia of being shot at by an unknown enemy still grip her every time she walked through a parking lot? More often than not.
Were there times she feared she’d chosen the wrong career path by giving up journalism to become a private investigator?
Abso-freaking-lutely.
But she’d carried on with her life as best as she could, working alongside her mentor, J.J. Stronghold, while attempting to create a semblance of a life that involved more than watching 80s movies in her pajamas with a bottle of wine.
Brewer Hawkins, her once outcast high school classmate turned hunky veteran biker, had played a crucial role in getting her back on her feet after the debacle involving Kappa Kappa Delta. His timing couldn’t have come at a better time since her best friend Kiersten had since become heavily occupied with Luke Jacobs, the attorney who’d saved Bexley from bogus attempted murder charges.
Bexley had spent a handful of weekends with Brewer, sometimes taking in the ocean air on his motorcycle, other times meeting up for a bite to eat. On several occasions, Bexley had gone to his motel on the edge of Los Angeles to drink beers alongside the empty pool.
Though the nature of their relationship remained platonic, and it seemed he preferred dating questionably younger women anyway, she was reluctant to admit just how much she enjoyed every second of his company. Something about the former Coastie’s carefree attitude on life struck home. Best of all, he never once lectured her on being careful, or warned her about putting herself in peril. Danger seeped from the man’s pores the same way the scent of leather clung to his skin after they’d been on a ride. And oh, what a lovely scent that was.
“Bex!” Cineste snapped, eyes narrowing in the candlelight. “Did you hear what Dad said?”
Smoothing the black cocktail dress she’d bought for the occasion against her thighs, Bexley slugged the last gulp of her sparkling wine down before answering. “Sorry, I’ve been preoccupied by a case.” She forced a smile in her father’s direction, feeling a ping of relief knowing it was likely the last time she’d see him dressed in uniform. All those medals of honor set against the white tunic were intimidating, to say the least. They even stirred up feelings of guilt for all the contempt she carried against a decorated hero. “What were you saying?”
The old man’s brow wrinkled as his eyes, the same green hue as Cineste’s and her own, burned with worry. For her. It was a phenomena more baffling than Bigfoot sightings. “Maybe you should take some more time off. It’s hardly been a month since you were kidnapped and cleared of those absurd charges. Why don’t I have a talk with J.J.—”
“That won’t be necessary,” Bexley insisted. She was mortified by the idea of her father meeting with her boss as if she were a little girl unable to speak her own mind. J.J. knew the only way for Bexley to keep her sanity was to bury herself with work.
Cineste popped a chunk of smoked Gouda into her mouth. “What does Grayson think about you going back to work so soon?”
Looking away from her sister, Bexley’s chest pinched with guilt. As far as her family knew, she was still living with Grayson, and they were headed toward the altar. She hadn’t told them she was renting a place down the street from Stronghold Investigations, or that she had been spending a considerable amount of time with another man. She was not about to entertain her family with stories of her love life, or lack thereof.
Snagging her empty glass, Bexley nudged Alex. “Will you grab that waitress behind you? I need a refill.”
Alex’s deep voice seeped with sarcasm when he answered, “Sure, no problem.”
“Are you seeing a psychiatrist?” Bexley’s father asked. “Maybe you should look into joining a PTSD group. I’ve seen it work wonders for brave men who’ve returned from combat with heads twice as messed up as yours.”
Bexley swallowed back a groan. The fact that her absentee father was pretending he knew the first thing about her mental state of mind was absurd. She was seeing a psychiatrist, and a majority of their conversations revolved around her lack of parental guidance into adulthood. Until J.J. came into her life, there was virtually no one to give advice when she’d made a mistake, or commend her for her accomplishments.
Around the time she was ready to snag an entire bottle of Prosecco from behind the bar herself, her phone buzzed from inside her handbag draped across the chair. She was giddy with relief for the welcome distraction.
She quickly slipped it out, finding a number starting with +52. Someone was calling her from Mexico. It was unusual, but not outside the realm of normal. Between J.J. and clients, she was accustomed to answering strange calls all hours of the day and night. It was one of the hazards of being a P.I.
“Excuse me,” she announced, standing with the cell phone raised in her hand. “I’ll just be a minute.
”
The Captain’s back stiffened for a heartbeat, then he grimly nodded his consent. As if she needed it. As she hurried away from the table, she caught Cineste’s eyes rolling to the ceiling. At least Bexley knew she was a solid 0-2 when it came to the support of her family members.
Pausing beneath a giant tear-drop chandelier outside the restrooms, Bexley finally answered the persistent buzz. “Bexley Squires.”
“Bex,” a warm, familiar voice rumbled. “It’s Brewer.”
Picturing his dimpled smirk, her stomach fluttered. She gritted her teeth, deeply annoyed by her Pavlov reaction. “If you’re calling to ask for bail money because of a donkey show gone bad, I’m not convinced our friendship has reached that level of depravity.”
“I’m calling to ask for a huge favor. I wouldn’t put this on you but…there’s no one else.”
Her heart skipped a beat with the seriousness to his tone. “What do you need?”
“My passport from my motel room…and a ride home…from Tijuana. As soon as humanly possible.”
With a heavy sigh, she glanced down the hallway. Though her father wouldn’t have thought twice about abandoning them for a work-related matter, she didn’t want to throw any further strain into their already tumultuous relationship. “I’m kind of in the middle of something important. Couldn’t you ask one of your brothers from the motorcycle club?”
“I’m asking you because I need your sleuthing skills. I’ll pay you your going rate.”
