Quiet Protector: Brandon's Story

by Shandi Boyes

  The usually ball-clutching pitch of Regan’s voice is reduced to a whisper when she asks, “When was he killed?”

  She looks like I ran over her cat when I point to the date of death in Dane’s obituary. She takes a few moments drinking in images of men with the same name as Dane, only stopping when she stumbles upon one that includes Alex, Grayson’s brother. It’s a photograph of Dane and Alex when their college team claimed victory on the lacrosse field. I’m reasonably sure I’ve never seen Alex smile the way he is in this picture.

  Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Grayson smile like that either.

  I guess I’m not the only one who has a fucked-up past.

  After brushing a rogue tear off her cheek, Regan’s eyes drift to mine. “How did he die?”

  I inwardly curse when it dawns on me why Grayson reacted to my earlier comment so negatively. Dane was Alex’s best friend, which means he would have known Grayson. Dane killed himself, so I don’t think Grayson will ever find my morbid sense of humor entertaining.

  Fuck, I’m an asshole.

  While rubbing a kink from the back of my neck, I answer the question Regan is desperately seeking from my eyes. “He killed himself.”

  “Why?” She sounds as shocked as I feel guilty. “He had a beautiful wife, an illustrious career, and two gorgeous daughters. Why would he leave that?”

  I shrug. “Maybe he was depressed?” I most certainly am.

  I don’t get time to dwell on my unexpected inner monologue when Regan’s squeal pierces my eardrums. “But why, Brandon?”

  As curious as Regan, I take control of my laptop before logging into the Bureau mainframe. Shock horror, I still have access even with my resignation officially being handed in over two weeks ago.

  Regan appears impressed when I bring up the official reports on Dane’s death, but she keeps her excitement on the down-low. She doesn’t trust me any more than I trust her.

  For the length of time it takes for Regan to read the main report, it’s clear she needed more than a quick once-over to absorb all the information in front of her. Dane’s file doesn’t just disclose his cause of death, it reveals how he was paralyzed from the waist down after being shot during a raid six years ago. Alex saved him by carrying him down a meadow on his back, but Dane’s life was irreverently changed.

  Is that why Isaac is paying Kristin a substantial chunk of money each month?

  Was he responsible for Dane’s injuries?

  Before I can seek answers to my questions in the reports in front of me, Regan closes the laptop screen, then hands it back to me. I grow worried my surly mood is contagious when her eyes lift and lock with mine. She looks like a woman on the edge of a cliff—not an orgasmic one.

  “Thank you for showing me that.”

  I dip my chin before voicing the only question in my head she can answer. “Are you going to tell Izzy about today?”

  I’m hoping she says yes, but I’m left short-changed when she replies, “I won’t have anything to tell her if you tell her first.”

  I almost say, ‘I doubt Isabelle will believe me,’ but before I can, she slides into the back of the taxi, leaving me defenseless to the bullets flying over my head on the corner of Tivot and St. Thomas Street.

  31

  Brandon

  While signaling for the diners eating outside to get down, I dump my briefcase in a hidey-hole before unclipping the revolver harnessed to my waist. After doing a quick scope of the area, it’s obvious which direction the bullets are coming from. A large, brute of a man is hanging out the passenger side window of a heavily-tinted white Range Rover. His gun is pointed at Hugo, who’s chasing the vehicle on foot.

  “Fuck. Get down,” Hugo shouts before barging an elderly lady waiting on the bus out of the firing zone.

  Just as the lady’s backside lands on the steel bench seat of the bus shelter, Hugo’s left shoulder is hit with a bullet. As he struggles to get back on his feet, I fire at the Range Rover. I take out the passenger’s side mirror and rear windshield, but the assailant goes around the corner too quickly for me to fire at the driver.

  “My name is Brandon James. I'm an FBI Field Agent. My number is 443567. I need an ambulance sent to the corner of Tivot and Welsh.”

  “Blondie?” Hugo coughs up a good chunk of blood when he peers up at me. His pupils are massive, and blood is squirting out of his wound, but the fact he can greet me is a good sign.

  When Hugo commences convulsing a short time later, the urgency of the situation dawns on me. “A bullet appears to have nicked an artery,” I relay to the operator on the other end of the line. “How far out are first responders?”

  My teeth grit when she answers, “Ten, fifteen minutes.”

  “He’ll bleed out by then.” I search the area, seeking any instruments that will help me save Hugo’s life. “Bring me the bucket of ice,” I shout to a couple enjoying a Sunday morning mimosa with their brunch. The middle-aged gentleman is unsure how ice will help a man who’s been shot, but he brings me the goods as requested. “Take your shirt off and wrap the ice cubes in it. The coolness of the ice will constrict his blood vessels, giving me some time to hunt for the nicked artery.”

  Nodding, the gray-haired man tugs off his expensive-looking polo shirt before dumping the full bucket of ice into it. Once I show him how to compress the makeshift dressing to Hugo’s chest, I dig two fingers into Hugo’s bullet wound, seeking the vein responsible for the puddle of blood I’m kneeling in. With most arteries pumping around one hundred milliliters of blood per heartbeat, I don’t have minutes to save Hugo.

  I have seconds.

  Certain the gush against my fingers is from a severed artery, I lift my eyes to the bystander caught in the middle of a turf war. “Pass me your money clip.”

  The urgency of my tone doesn’t give the stranger time to question how I know he has a money clip. His expensive loafers, three-hundred-dollar jeans, and thick gold chain gave away the fact he’d never place his money into a wallet like a normal person. He can’t show off his large bundle of cash if he keeps it hidden.

  “Ahh… should you be doing that?” The man talks through the lump in his throat, sickened by me inching his money clip into Hugo’s wound.

  “We need to clamp the artery. Unless you have a set of sterile surgical clamps, I’ll work with what we have.” Once I’m happy the money clip is slowing the flow of blood pumping out of Hugo’s heart, I check his pulse. It’s there, but it is weak as hell.

  Hugo’s blood smears on my cheek when I lift my phone to my ear. “Do you have an update on an ETA?” My pulse overtakes the operator’s voice when I lose Hugo’s pulse. “If you don’t get them here now, he’s dead!” I scream down the line before throwing my cell back onto the asphalt to commence CPR.

  “Come on, Hugo.” I thump on his tattooed chest to shock his heart before commencing compressions. “Don’t give up! Do you hear me? You’re not allowed to die.”

  Ignoring the fact I screamed the same words to Joey, I compress Hugo’s chest until first responders arrive to overtake the legwork. As they attach an oxygen mask to Hugo’s face, I scuttle backward, praying the outcome this time around won’t end with a white sheet being draped. I’ve seen that image too many times in my life. I don’t want to see it again.

  I breathe for the first time in what feels like minutes when the transportable heart monitor picks up a faint, yet there, heartbeat. “You did good,” the paramedic praises, stunned he didn’t arrive to a DOA.

  “Well done,” my assistant commends, patting me on the shoulder. He looks like he wants to hug me, but considering my shirt is covered with vibrant red blood, he holds back.

  I shift on my feet to face an elderly lady with a face full of wrinkles when she asks, “What happened to the woman in the Range Rover? Did your team get her?”

  “Woman? What woman?” I ask, shocked.

  Her pupils widen to the size of saucers as the color drains from her face. “That’s why he
was chasing them. They pulled a female into the back of a Range Rover at the bottom of St. Thomas Hill.” She clutches her chest as her bottom lip shakes. “Oh dear, I hope she’s okay?”

  “What did she look like? Can you give me a brief description?” I say ‘brief’ as this lady looks like she could talk my ear off.

  “About this tall.” She holds her hand a foot taller than her height, which I’d guess to be around four-eight or so. “Chestnut hair. Was wearing jogging clothes and running with him.” She nudges her head to Hugo who’s being placed onto a gurney by four first responders.

  “Was it her?” My hand shakes when I scroll through the images on my phone, seeking one of Isabelle. I scanned many of her into the Bureau mainframe the past few months, but these are from my private collection. “She’s a couple of years older than this photo now.”

  When I spin my phone around to face the lady, she nods.

  Fuck!

  As I strive to keep my head in game mode, I ponder what to do. I could have the operator busying up my phone to dispatch Ravenshoe PD, but they’ll take minutes to get here. Furthermore, just like the New York PD doesn’t run New York, neither does Ravenshoe PD.

  Isaac all but owns this town.

  When I spot Hugo’s cell phone sitting just left of a puddle of blood, I jump into action. “Wait.” The first responders stop pushing Hugo toward the ambulance, startled by my shout. “I need his thumbprint.” Hugo’s phone isn’t your standard cell phone. I haven’t seen this brand before, leading me to believe it’s a private network Isaac’s team uses.

  “Where are you taking him?”

  As a dark-haired responder replies, I scroll through Hugo’s recently called list to locate the last number he dialed. Although the area code is foreign, Isaac answers two seconds later. The worry in his tone advises me he’s aware of the critical situation unfolding. I’m not surprised. He seems to know what’s going to happen in Ravenshoe before it occurs.

  “Hugo.”

  “It’s Brandon,” I correct, my greeting somewhat curt. “Hugo has been shot. They’re taking him to Mercer Hospital.”

  Isaac’s exhale is rigid enough to be felt from here. “Instruct them to take him to Ravenshoe Private. Tell them it’s at the request of Isaac Holt. I’ll call the head of surgery there and advise her of his impending arrival.”

  “Okay.” After muzzling the phone, I pass on my instructions. The unnamed first responder looks surprised by my request, but he nods his head, nonetheless.

  Once they have Hugo loaded into the back of the ambulance, I shift my focus back to Isaac. “Isaac…”

  “Yes…”

  The desperateness in his voice has me switching tactics. I was planning to tell him to be cautious, his every move is being monitored. Instead, I disclose just how closely he’s being scrutinized. “Ask Regan to call the head of the FBI division in our county. Alex will help if he knows it’s for Izzy.” When silence resonates down the line, I give credit to my advice. “He has a higher clearance than Hunter does on the police database. It may be your only chance of finding her before it’s too late. If this is Col, he won’t keep Isabelle alive for long.”

  The heaviness on my chest eases when Isaac replies, “Regan is here. I’ll call him.” His clipped tone advises my suggestion won’t be easy for him to swallow, but he’s willing to do anything to keep Isabelle safe.

  If that’s the case, why is he working with the Popovs? It truly makes no sense.

  I stop debating his strangeness when Isaac calls my name.

  “Yes.”

  A bout of restlessness smacks into me when he mutters, “Thank you for your help. Please keep me updated on Hugo.”

  “I will.” With shock stealing my words, I disconnect our call before shifting on my feet to face the first responders. “Give me a sec to grab my belongings so I can ride with you.”

  When he attempts to cite an objection to my request, I fan open my coat. I don’t know whether the gun stuffed down the front of my pants convinces him or my credentials. Whatever it is, he agrees to my suggestion remarkably quick.

  After dipping my chin in thanks, I hightail it to the spot I left my briefcase.

  I could have sworn I hid it between the outside tables, but I can’t see it anywhere. There are no bags on the ground at all.

  “Did you see a soft leather briefcase sitting here?” I ask a shaken waiter gathering up the dishes left by the diners who went running when bullets were sprayed. “I left it right here.”

  “No, sorry,” she answers with a shake of her head.

  “It was right there!” I scream at her, frustrated. “It couldn’t have just vanished.”

  “Maybe someone took it?”

  “Yeah, maybe someone did.” My voice is more sarcastic than hers, and ten times more furious. “And when I find out who they are, maybe I’ll remove their fingers.” When she swallows harshly, I realize I’m projecting my anger at the wrong person. “Sorry…” After another big exhale, I add, “If anyone hands it in, can you please contact me?”

  Her cheeks bloom when I hand her my business card. Grayson said flashing your credentials works well with the ladies. I’ve never had an opportunity to test his theory until now.

  “I will, Agent James.” She purrs my name like my no-longer accurate title made me instantly cuter.

  Ignoring my intuition warning me she’s planning to use my private cell number for more than to contact me about my briefcase, I race back to the ambulance mounted on the curb. As they race Hugo to Ravenshoe Private, I send a quick message to Phillipa to update her on the current events occurring in Ravenshoe. Although Isaac isn’t a direct target of hers, three of the bodies located at the Shroud family ranch were from Ravenshoe, so the CIA is paying close attention to this region.

  Once my email whizzes off to Phillipa’s secure inbox, I dial Grayson’s number then squash my phone to my ear. “Tell them to take a right on Webster. The emergency lane on the interstate has a minivan with a flat. Even with sirens, they won’t get through traffic,” he says, not bothering to issue a greeting.

  After passing his instructions onto the driver, and watching him turn right, I ask, “You’ve got eyes on me?”

  “Yep.” The ‘P’ pops from his mouth. “I’m piggybacking on Isaac’s hacker’s feed. It’s about time that fucker paid me back. He’s been riding my ass all year.” Keys being stroked sound down the line before Grayson’s gruff moan. “I don’t think Alex will appreciate his morning visitor. Isaac is heading straight for his office building.”

  Guilt dangles off my vocal cords when I confess, “I told Isaac to reach out to him.”

  “I know. I heard. Good move.”

  “Good?” That wasn’t close to the response I was anticipating.

  “If Isaac is desperate enough, he’ll make a mistake—”

  “That could result in Isabelle’s death,” I interrupt, shouting. “Jesus, Grayson. Have a fucking heart.”

  Grayson doesn’t understand the words ‘back down.’ “Two of the females found at Shrouds’ lived in an apartment building owned by Isaac.”

  “So? He owns half the damn town.” Even the ambulance officer conducting a range of tests on Hugo hums out an agreement.

  My attitude takes a seat when Grayson continues speaking as if I never interrupted him. “And the third victim’s identity was discovered earlier today. Who was she last seen with?” Although he’s asking a question, he doesn’t wait for me to answer him. “Isaac Holt. Reid has images of him picking her up from her apartment the night he returned from The Hamptons.”

  His disclosure is shocking, but there are too many loose threads for me to ignore. “The Shrouds’ ranch was a baby-making facility’s dumping site. Isaac’s trip to The Hamptons was only months ago, the date range doesn’t add up.”

  “Does in an industry where babies cut both production and profit margins.”

  It takes me a few seconds to read between the lines, but when I do, it smacks me in the gut. “Isa
ac’s date was a prostitute?”

  “Uh-huh. Had her tubes tied a few years back at her gigolo’s request. He didn’t want to get her shacked up with a baby when she was bringing in over eight G a night.”

  Now her death makes sense. The Castros wouldn’t have kept her alive long after finding out she was worthless to them. They weren’t working the prostitution conglomerate. It also discloses why Phillipa’s team is looking so closely at Ravenshoe. The Castros have been bunkered down for over a year, so why are some of the victims’ deaths so fresh?

  Before I can answer my question, the ambulance arrives at Ravenshoe Private.

  “We’ve arrived at the hospital. I’ve got to go.”

  Grayson calls my name before I fully lower my phone from my ear. “Alex and Isaac are on the move. I’ll keep you updated.”

  “Thanks,” I reply, genuinely grateful.

  Even more so when he adds, “I’ll also find your briefcase. You’re not the only one who likes wasting Sundays immersing himself in times gone by. I’ve got the files backed up, but nothing replicates seeing decade-old footage on an ancient screen.”

  I stare down at my phone’s screen when he disconnects our call. If he only piggybacked the CTC feed when Isaac’s hacker logged in, how did he know I was watching videos of Melody and me before he called me? His mainframe is linked to Tobias’s laptop, but I used a private proxy, aware he’s a creep who has no qualms stepping over lines deemed as acceptable for friends.

  Clearly, I need to start watching Grayson as closely as he’s watching me.

  32

  Melody

  “Are you sure you don’t want to come in and clean up before your flight?”

  Julian’s smile competes with the low-hanging sun. “Thank you for the offer, but I’m good. I don’t want to be late for my flight.”

  “It’s a private jet, Julian. I’m sure it can wait.” I rib him with my elbow, ensuring he knows there’s no malice to my tone.