"Point taken." Daryl finished the last bite of the bar then shoved the empty wrapper into the bag. "What else do you have on him?"
"Information from the last five years is slim. He's either been very careful, or he's lost what little prominence he had. My guess is the latter."
"Why's that?"
"He may have made millions doing business, but he was never what you would call a major player. Looks like he started off small enough, slowly built up from there. Mostly the drug trade and arms trafficking, from what I can tell."
"But you said he fled the country?"
"Yeah. He was facing charges on the trafficking and tax evasion—because hey, our friends need to stick with what works, right? But I get the impression he's not the kind of man you want to cross. There's a lot of dead bodies attached to his name, going back twenty years."
And ending as recently as eleven days ago—
If this guy Byrne had anything to do with Davis's death. Daryl still wasn't seeing the connection, couldn't stretch his imagination far enough to see his former CO mixed up with anything illegal.
Except it wasn't Allen Davis who was mixed up with anything. At least, not directly. It was his daughter. What had Theresa said?
He died protecting her.
Protecting her from what? What the hell was the girl mixed up in?
Daryl closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Hard. There was a connection missing—a huge one. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't figure it out. Was that really so surprising? It was difficult as fuck to complete a puzzle when you only had ten pieces of it to work with. The way he figured it, he was missing at least nine-hundred-and-ninety of those damn pieces.
And he had no fucking clue where to start looking for them.
No, that wasn't right. He did know where to start: about an hour from here, in some God-forsaken patch of West Virginia wilderness. It would be a thirty-minute drive, followed by at least thirty minutes hiking. In the dark.
If the coordinates Davis had left him were correct. And if they actually led to his daughter. Daryl had a hundred percent confidence in that first part. The second? Not so much.
"Were you able to get anything on Davis?"
"Yeah. Right now, the police are calling it a home invasion. No leads. No evidence." Chaos paused, lowered his voice. "It was a single tap to the forehead. Small caliber. No defensive wounds."
"What the fuck? Are you sure about that?" Chaos had to be wrong. No defensive wounds? It wasn't possible. The Allen Davis he knew wouldn't have gone down without a fight.
"Sorry, boss-man. I'm looking at the report and the crime scene photos. No defensive wounds. Not even a scratch. Do you want me to send them to you?"
Daryl almost said yes, changed his mind at the last second. "No, I don't need them."
And he didn't. If Chaos said there were no defensive wounds, Daryl believed him. Even if didn't, he wasn't sure he'd want to see the photos. It had nothing to do with death itself. Fuck, he'd seen enough death in his time, had even pushed more than his fair share of people straight through death's door. Death didn't faze him.
But he didn't want to see his former CO like that. Didn't want to see the strong man he remembered reduced to nothing more than a corpse, stripped of all human dignity once life escaped the shell of the body.
"Are you going to tell anyone what the hell is going on yet?" Chaos's voice pulled him from the dark turn his thoughts were taking. He shifted in the seat, ignored the creaking of springs under his ass, and pulled the map from the side pocket of his pack.
"I'm not sure."
"You're not sure? Is that code for mind my own fucking business?"
"No, it means I'm not sure."
"Yeah. Hang on a second."
There was a muted rustling sound, followed by some gruff swearing. A second later, Mac's gravelly voice exploded in his ear.
"What the fuck is going on out there?"
Daryl deflected the question with one of his own. "Why the hell are you at the office when you have a wife at home, waiting for your ugly ass?"
"TR happens to like my ass and unless you want her to kick yours for calling it ugly, you need to start talking. What the fuck is going on?"
"I'm not sure yet."
"Bullshit. You race out of here like the world's coming to an end then call back and have Chaos pull all sorts of fucking intel." Mac paused, lowered his voice. "Allen Davis was your old CO, wasn't he?"
"Yeah, he was. A long time ago."
"I'm sorry. I saw the reports. It doesn't look good."
"Yeah. Thanks."
"Was he mixed up with this Grady Byrne?"
"I don't think so. Not directly."
"Then what does one have to do with the other?"
"I'm still working on connecting those dots."
Another pause. "You heading to those coordinates you sent Chaos?"
"Yeah, as soon as I get off the phone with you."
"I looked at the topo. It's not exactly a Sunday hike."
"Not exactly like I haven't done worse."
"But you're going in alone."
"Yeah."
"Do you have any idea what the fuck you're walking into?"
Daryl thought about blowing him off and just as quickly dismissed the idea. "None at all."
"Then wait. We can be out there in two hours, tops. Go in as a team—"
"No." Daryl shook his head, repeated the word. "No. Not happening."
Mac exploded again. "You're out of your fucking mind. If any one of us tried a bullshit stunt like this, you'd go fucking nuts and ride our asses. Just wait. Two hours, not even—"
"Not happening, Sergeant."
"Fuck that sergeant shit. You had one stripe on me. Don't let it go to your fucking head."
Daryl laughed. The sound was tired. Weary. Maybe a little edgy—but it was still a laugh, something he needed without even realizing it. "Still not happening, Mac. I need to see what's going on first."
"There's a damn good chance you're going to be off-grid and unable to make contact once you start on foot."
"Probably."
"Do you have your sat phone?"
Daryl looked at the gear bag on the seat next to him and bit back a low growl. No, he didn't have his sat phone—or the other equipment he usually carried out in the field. His bag contained nothing more than the basics—because he hadn't planned on being in the field. Because when he tore out of the office yesterday afternoon, it had been with the intention of doing nothing more than visiting an old friend.
Fuck it. He had the basics. That was one of the advantages of flying charter because it allowed him to carry those basics—which happened to include his PK380, extra clips, and extra ammo. That was plenty enough. For now.
"No. It's back in my office with the rest of my gear."
"Son-of-a—" The curse disappeared in a rough sigh, followed by a few seconds of heavy silence. "Why are you doing this? At least tell me that much."
"I owe him, Mac." And it was as simple as that. Would Mac be able to hear what he didn't say? Yes, he would. He'd been around long enough, knew all about the bonds of brotherhood forged by something much stronger than blood.
"You've got twenty-four hours."
"Forty-eight."
"Twenty-four and you're damn lucky I'm giving you that much. Whatever you're doing, you better get your fucking ass in gear because the clock is ticking." There was a soft click, followed by dead silence.
Daryl tossed the phone into the cup holder then spread open the map and studied it in the dim overhead light of the truck's cab. There wasn't a direct route to his destination, no matter which way he looked at it. He'd be on the highway for ten minutes, then a series of backroads until the roads simply disappeared. At least to where he was going. Hell, there wasn't even any old fire trails that he could see.
Mac was giving him twenty-four hours. Fine. With luck, he'd reach the spot he had mapped out within an hour of starting out, maybe a little more
. Daryl had no idea what was there. A cabin, if he was lucky. Not a damn thing, if he wasn't. He was erring on the side of optimism and betting on a cabin. Something small. Off-the-grid. Self-contained.
Isolated as fuck.
It was a good place for someone who didn't want to be found to disappear—if that same someone knew what the hell they were doing. This was Davis's daughter, though, so he gave her fifty-fifty odds. Maybe a little higher. No way in hell could she have Davis as a father and not learn at least a little something about survival.
Unless she was a total fuck-up. If that was the case, all bets were off. The problem was, Daryl had no way of knowing if she was a fuck-up or not. He didn't want to think she was, just because she was Davis's daughter. Then again, she was somehow involved with some fucking Irish gangster.
The fact was, he wouldn't know until he got to where the hell he needed to go—and that wouldn't happen until he put the truck in gear and started driving.
Twenty-four hours.
With luck, this would be over in three. He hoped like hell that was the case because a lot could go wrong in twenty-four hours—and that itchy feeling on the back of his neck told him to expect the worst.
Ninety minutes later, he was questioning not only that itchy feeling but also every last bit of sanity he thought he possessed. More than once, he wished he was back in the desert, navigating dry sand and barren mountains. Anything would be preferable to this fucking dense forest growing sideways on a fucking mountain in the middle of the fucking night. He had no NVGs—night vision goggles—and was essentially making his way blind. The half moon offered some illumination—when it wasn't hidden by the dense branches overhead. He used his small flashlight sparingly—just enough to check his coordinates against the map. Anything more and he risked giving away his position, not to mention ruining his night vision.
And just where the fuck was this damn place? It should be close but there was nothing around him except trees and more fucking trees.
Daryl paused, grabbed the water bottle from the side pocket of his pants and raised it to his mouth for a long drink. Sunrise would be in another twenty minutes and while light might make his trek easier, he'd prefer finding the damn cabin—or hut or tent or whatever the fuck it was Davis had sent him to—before that. He had planned to approach in the dark, do a little reconnaissance around the perimeter then find a spot where he could lay low and watch for a little bit.
That plan was pretty much shot in the ass. At best, he might have a chance to do a quick survey. At worst, he'd be walking up blind, his opportunity for surprise destroyed by the dawn.
That's if there was even anything here. Daryl was beginning to have his doubts. And if there was something here, the chances that anyone had managed to find this damn place were slim.
Isolated? Talk about fucking understatements.
He walked for another ten minutes, stopped short when he caught the first whiff of woodsmoke. Just the faintest odor drifting on the breeze, barely noticeable. Daryl closed his eyes, tilted his face up and sniffed. Yes, definitely woodsmoke.
He opened his eyes, swore to himself when he noticed the change in light. Just a subtle difference, where the darkness wasn't quite as complete as it had been minutes earlier. He'd either lost track of time or had miscalculated the sunrise. Why didn't matter, only that he had.
He swore again, moved silently in the direction of the smoke, pausing between each careful step. The growth was thinner here, growing thinner with each step that took him closer to his destination.
And yeah, there was a definite destination at the end of this journey. He wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. There was a fleeting sense of reassurance that he hadn't been sent on a wild goose chase—
And a good deal of trepidation because he had no idea what waited for him. Davis's daughter? Maybe.
Maybe not.
But who the fuck else could it be?
He paused again, frowned when he noticed another smell in the air. Blinked, resisted the urge to rub his eyes. Was he fucking imagining things?
No, he wasn't—that was fresh coffee he smelled.
What. The. Fuck.
He moved even closer, dropped into a crouch behind some thick cover when the silhouette of a small cabin came into view. There was a thirty-foot clearance around the cabin, at least from what he could see. That would make sneaking up on it tricky, especially if the person—or people—inside were keeping an eye out for unexpected company.
Dawn was creeping across the sky, slowly pulling back the cover of night. If he wanted to get closer to the cabin without being noticed, now was the time.
Fuck. There were a million things wrong with this scenario. A million fucking things that could go sideways—and none of them ended in his favor. He was putting a lot of faith in Davis, in the belief that his old CO wouldn't send him here if it was a trap. That was the one thought propelling him forward: Davis's daughter was here, hiding out. The older man wouldn't have sent her somewhere dangerous.
Unless she was dangerous herself and Davis just didn't know it.
Daryl pushed the thought from his mind and carefully circled the cabin, staying out of view until he'd completed a full three-sixty. His first impression had been right: the cabin was small, maybe twenty feet by twenty feet. A shed backed up to the rear and next to that, a huge stack of firewood that could last an entire winter. There was no rear door, which sent a dozen alarm bells ringing through Daryl's head. There should be at least one more exit and yeah, one of those windows would work in a pinch but a door would have been a little nicer.
And it would have made things easier for him.
Time was running out. Unless he wanted to do this in the full morning light, he needed to move now. He mapped the route in his mind, circled to the spot he'd already picked out. Waited until the count of three—
Then took off at a low run toward the west corner, approaching from a diagonal, heading toward the shed and woodpile. They'd give him enough cover while also getting him close to a window where he could look in.
And hope like hell nobody was looking out when he did.
He reached the corner of the building. Paused, his breath held, listening. There was no cry of surprise, no shout of warning. He waited a full minute. One more. Still nothing. He pressed his back to the wall, eased closer to the shed. All he had to do was get between the shed and the woodpile. Once he was there, he could hunker down and wait, keep an ear out and take a look inside.
He was against the shed now, moving sideways, using his hand to guide him to the end. Another foot, no more. Daryl turned his head to the right, his gaze searching the empty clearing he'd just darted through. Still no sign—
"Don't. Move."
Two thoughts slammed into his consciousness simultaneously.
The first was that he had fucked up. Big time. The fact that something cold and hard pressed against the back of his head told him that much. He didn't move. Didn't turn his head. Didn't fucking breathe.
The not breathing had nothing to do with the first thought and everything to do with the second—
Because he recognized that voice. He'd heard it in his dreams every fucking night for the last three months. Low, sultry. A little breathless, like she'd just rolled out of bed after a night of hot, sweaty, sex.
Daryl said a quick prayer that the woman on the other end of that fucking weapon didn't have a twitchy finger. He slowly eased his hands out to the side and spoke. Just one word, but that was all he needed to say.
"Kelsey."
Chapter Nine
Kelsey.
She recognized the voice. It was him. Daryl. She almost sagged in relief, caught herself at the last second. It would be too easy to let her guard down, too easy to fall into his arms and ask him to take care of everything, the way her father promised he would if she went to him.
But she couldn't. Letting her guard down could prove fatal—and not just to her. How could she trust anyone? She couldn't, not when the
re was so much at stake.
Those thoughts took fewer than two seconds to play in her mind—and those two seconds proved to be her undoing. Before she could move, before she could even react, she was flat on her back against the cold ground, a large hand clamped over her mouth, a familiar heavy weight stretched out on top of her. The gun she'd been holding so carefully was ripped from her hand as a pair of lethal amber eyes stared down at her in anger.
Kelsey tried to scream, struggled to move, to get out from underneath Daryl's heavy weight. Panic made her flail and her fists pummeled his back. His shoulder. His head.
She heard him grunt, the sound low and dangerous, but she didn't care. She hit him again. Desperation made her swing blindly, made each glancing blow weak and ineffective.
"Dammit, lady. Stop." The tone was one she recognized immediately, carrying the same authority and command that she sometimes heard in her father's voice.
But she didn't listen. She couldn't. She needed to get free. To run away. To find some other place to hide because oh, God, he'd found her. What if he wasn't the only one? What if there were others who had found her? They could be making their way through the woods even now, sneaking up on her, ready to kill her.
A fresh surge of panic raced over her, giving her a burst of strength. She arched her back, bucked beneath the man stretched out on top of her. Kicked her heels against the dirt and swung out with one fist. She felt her knuckles scrape against bare skin, heard a muttered oath, felt the heavy weight pinning her to the ground shift and for one fleeting second, she thought he was moving, that she could push to her feet and take off—
But she wasn't free. Instead of rolling off her like she had hoped—prayed—he just grabbed both of her hands and pinned them over her head. His powerful legs straddled her thighs, squeezing, keeping her from kicking out.
The fight left her as quickly as it had come, leaving her limp and tired. Exhaustion stole over her as adrenaline fled. As failure washed over her and with it, harsh reality.
The Guardian: DARYL (Cover Six Security, #2) Page 8
