The Guardian: DARYL (Cover Six Security, #2)

by Lisa B. Kamps

  Anger and panic had washed over her, paralyzing her for one frightening second before instinct took over. Before survival kicked in. Not just survival but a wave of protectiveness that nearly blinded her. She swung out. Hitting. Kicking. Screaming until people started rushing their way. Screaming until the man finally let go. She scooped up her crying daughter and ran, leaving the shopping bag behind.

  She ran both hands through her hair, sucked in a deep breath and let it out in a rush. Exhaling fear. Emotion. Worry. "I called Dad from a truck stop and waited there for him. He showed up a few hours later and—he took Paige. Took her somewhere safe."

  "And you don't know where."

  Was that accusation she heard in his voice once again? No, it was nothing more than her imagination. Her own guilty conscience rising up, accusing her again of abandoning her daughter. Kelsey shook her head—in answer to his question, and in denial of the guilt that had been with her since that night.

  "No, I don't. It was Dad's idea. If I didn't know where she was, I couldn't accidentally lead Grady's men to her."

  Daryl was quiet for a long time. So long that she actually wondered what he was thinking. Did he believe her? Did she care if he didn't?

  She shouldn't care. It shouldn't matter at all what he thought. What he believed. But to her dismay, it did—because she needed his help. Without him, she might never see Paige again.

  Kelsey tried to convince herself that was the only reason she cared but she failed—for reasons she didn't understand. Reasons she didn't even want to think about right now.

  Daryl drained his coffee and stood. Dragged the chair across the floor and placed it in the exact spot where it had been earlier then calmly rinsed his mug out and placed it back on the shelf. Only then did he turn around and look at her, his eyes expressionless.

  "Is Kelsey your real name?"

  She blinked in surprise, almost asked why he cared. But she was too tired to play games. Too tired to verbally spar with the man carefully watching her. "Yeah, it's my real name."

  "Why tell me? Why not give me a phony name?"

  She almost asked him what he meant, stopped before she made a fool of herself. He didn't mean now—he meant before. The first time they'd met. "I—I don't know."

  He nodded, glanced around the cabin, finally met her gaze. "Grab your gear. We're leaving."

  Hope blossomed deep inside and she quickly squelched it. She couldn't afford to hope, not yet. Not until she knew for sure what he meant by leaving.

  "Where are we going?"

  His amber gaze held hers for a long minute. What she saw in their depths made the hope deep inside her spring to life once more.

  "We're going to get your daughter."

  Chapter Twelve

  The trip heading back to the dirt road where he had parked the rental truck was marginally easier than the hike in—but only because he wasn't making his way through the dark this time. Weak light filtered in through the empty branches overhead, adding an almost ghostly glow to everything. Daryl checked his watch to gauge their time. It had taken him just under two hours to reach the cabin once he started out. Going back shouldn't take as long—theoretically, anyway. But he wasn't traveling by himself and he had to account for extra time for Kelsey.

  He stopped next to the thick trunk of a dead tree blackened with rot and turned to study her progress. She wasn't far behind him, her shorter stride steady and competent. A knit hat covered her head and the bulky coat she wore practically swallowed her small frame. A sturdy walking stick was clenched in one gloved hand; the other hand was loosely wrapped around one of the shoulder straps of her oversize backpack. She had her head down, watching each step as she carefully maneuvered the small downward slope.

  For some odd reason, the image of a wizened old hermit came to mind. He didn't know why—Kelsey was neither wizened nor old. And she didn't look like a hermit; at least, not how he imagined a hermit would look. But the image was there, whether it made sense or not, and he almost grinned.

  Fuck.

  Yeah, he needed more caffeine. The second cup he'd had as he waited for Kelsey to gather her things had helped but the effects were already beginning to fade. He thought he'd have time for a third while she packed but she was faster than he gave her credit for.

  Not that she had much to pack. The woman traveled light, he had to give her credit for that, at least. That didn't mean her pack wasn't heavy. It was nothing more than a regular backpack—a larger one, but still just a backpack. It wasn't a hiking pack, didn't have a waist strap. And it wasn't designed to carry any kind of weight over any distance. Whatever weight was in it, no matter how light, would be resting entirely on her shoulders instead of her hips.

  He watched her approach, studying her face. Her expression. Her gait. Looking for any sign of weariness. Of weakness. They hadn't been walking for long, not even twenty minutes yet. But he had no idea what kind of shape she was in or what kind of conditions she was used to. He didn't want her tripping or falling, didn't want to push her if she needed a break.

  Judging from the impatient glance she threw his way, she didn't want a break. Tough shit. There was no need to rush. No need to hurry. Nobody was chasing them and hurrying back wouldn't get them to where they were going any faster.

  Then again, maybe he should push her. Move so fast that she was completely exhausted by the time they reached the truck. If he did that, he wouldn't have to listen to her scream and argue when she learned where they were going.

  Because he wasn't taking her to get her daughter. No way in hell. He planned on taking her back home, holing her up somewhere safe and having one of the guys keep an eye on her. Then he'd go get her daughter and bring her back.

  And figure out where the hell to go from there. If Grady Byrne was still looking for them—and there was no reason to think he wasn't, not unless Kelsey was lying—then finding her daughter wouldn't solve anything. It would reunite the two of them, yeah. But it wouldn't put an end to whatever danger they were in.

  Fuck. He was still wrapping his head around everything she'd told him. Part of him didn't want to believe it—it was too much like one of those awful mobster movies that played on television late at night. But her pain and desperation as she told him the story had been real. Her panic and fear when she had first tried to run from him at the cabin had been real.

  And Davis being murdered was real, too. What had Chaos said about Grady Byrne? There's a lot of dead bodies attached to his name. If even half of what Kelsey had told him was true, there was a good possibility that she could end up on that list of bodies.

  Bullshit. Not on his watch.

  And not just because Davis had asked for his help.

  She came to a stop next to him, reached up and adjusted the straps of her pack then tossed him another impatient look. "You didn't need to stop. I'm fine."

  Was she? Maybe. Maybe not. He couldn't tell. She seemed fine—except for the smudges under her eyes and the worry shadowing her gaze. Part of him couldn't quite believe she'd been running for three years. How had she managed to stay ahead of Byrne for so long?

  He knew the answer even before the question completely formed in his mind: her father. Allen Davis would know how to help her disappear, would have been able to give her support along the way. Disappearing wasn't as hard as people thought it was, even in this time of constant connection through technology, not if you knew what you were doing.

  And Davis definitely knew what he was doing.

  It was what she had told him about the last six months that surprised him the most. That she had willingly given up her daughter, had willingly allowed the separation in order to keep her daughter safe.

  And fuck. She had a daughter. She was still in love with her daughter's father. He had to fucking remember that. Had to forget about that fucking night in the Caribbean, separate then from now and stay focused on what he needed to do.

  Keep her safe—and stay the fuck away from her.

  Daryl didn't fully
trust her, wondered if there were things she wasn't telling him—hell, he knew there were things she wasn't telling him, like how the hell she had managed to be in the Caribbean the same time he was—but she had been honest about hiding her daughter. For the most part, she'd been detached when talking about everything else, like she was merely reciting a story. But her outburst when he accused her of giving up her daughter had been too real to be fake, too raw to be manufactured.

  Yeah—or maybe he was just a fucking sucker for a sob story. Maybe he was letting that damn night they'd been together in the Caribbean cloud his fucking judgment.

  Maybe—except for Davis. His old CO wasn't a bullshitter, wouldn't ask for help if he didn't need it. And if Davis thought the threat was real, then it was fucking real.

  Daryl reached behind him and yanked a bottle of water from the side pouch of his pack. He twisted off the lid then held it out to Kelsey. "Drink."

  "I'm not thirsty—"

  "Too bad. Drink."

  She narrowed her eyes then grudgingly accepted the bottle. Brought it to her mouth and took several long swallows before handing it back to him. "Your turn. Drink."

  Daryl almost cracked a smile at the way her tone matched his. Unlike her, he didn't argue, just upended the bottle and drained it. He started to recap it then stopped, instincts going on high alert when something around them shifted and changed. The few early birds that had been singing stopped, plunging the woods around them into an eerie silence. That damn itchy sensation appeared on the back of his neck. He didn't wait, didn't look around—he just grabbed Kelsey's arm and pulled her to the ground, covering her body with his a split-second before the bark of the trunk he'd been leaning on exploded.

  "Fuck!" The oath came out in a low growl, more of an I-don't-fucking-believe-this swear than a shit-we're-in-trouble swear. Who the fuck was out there shooting at them? Was it some other homesteader taking offense at them coming too close at whatever might pass for their home?

  That was nothing more than wishful thinking. The shot had been a hell of a lot more than a warning shot—and too damn close for comfort.

  Daryl shrugged out of his pack, reached inside his coat and pulled the PK380 from his shoulder holster. He had eight rounds in the clip and one in the chamber—more than enough.

  He hoped. If not, he had two more clips ready to go.

  How many people were out there? One? Two? More? He cocked his head to the side, listening through the slight ringing in his ears. There, off to the left, the tell-tale crack of a branch breaking. Just beyond that was the sound of a foot slipping in leaves, punctuated by a small grunt.

  Another sound several yards to the right of those two. Wheezing, like someone was trying to catch their breath.

  Yeah. It helped that they sucked at being quiet.

  That made three. Were there more? Daryl listened for another few seconds, his ears attuned to any sound that didn't belong.

  Whoever they were, they were doing their damnedest to be quiet—and failing. They must have been waiting. No way in hell would they have been able to sneak up on them without him noticing. Then again, he hadn't exactly been quiet. Hadn't thought he needed to be quiet, not out here, near the cabin in the middle of BFE that nobody else was supposed to know about.

  Three men. The odds weren't bad, wouldn't make him think twice at any other time. But he wasn't alone, he had to think of the woman laying deathly still underneath him.

  Was she hurt? He didn't think so. He knew she was breathing because he could feel the movement of her pack digging into his gut with each shallow rise and fall of her chest. But she was quiet, hadn't even screamed in surprise when he grabbed her and threw her to the ground. Hadn't flinched when the bullet hit the tree next to them.

  As far as positions went, they weren't in a bad spot. Not the best spot, but it was better than the incline a few yards behind them. Why the hell hadn't the shooter—or shooters—fired then? They would have had a better chance of hitting their targets if they had.

  He didn't know and for now, he was damn glad they hadn't. Damn amateurs. They'd pay for that mistake.

  Later. Right now, he had to come up with a plan. Draw them out. He glanced around, studied the terrain, looking for a better spot. There, an old log, about ten yards away. He could make it with no problem—but could Kelsey?

  He couldn't risk it—couldn't risk her safety. He didn't like the idea of leaving her where they were but for right now, it was the best option.

  He slowly slid off her, easing his weight from her prone body. She turned her head, kept it lowered as her wide-eyed gaze met his. Her face had drained of color, making the small scratch on her chin stand out even more.

  Rage tore through him, surprising him with its strength. It was a scratch, nothing more. A scratch that was probably his fault because of the way he threw her to the ground.

  Something he'd had to do because of those assholes. Yeah, the bastards would definitely pay.

  "Are you okay?" He mouthed the question, saw understanding flare in her eyes. She nodded but didn't say anything else, just rested her cheek against the dirt and leaves and twigs.

  He wanted to lean down and press a kiss against her forehead, tell her how proud he was of her for staying so calm. Any other woman he knew would have screamed, would be hyperventilating in fear. And what the fuck was wrong with him? They had three fucking assholes waiting to open fire on them and he was fucking laying here thinking of kissing her because she was quiet? So she wasn't screaming. Big fucking deal. She was probably in shock.

  And if he didn't get his fucking head out of his ass and come up with a plan, she could be dead in five minutes.

  He pulled his gaze from hers and studied the terrain once more. Trees. Lots and lots of fucking trees—and even more dead fucking leaves on the ground. That would make moving around without being heard a little trickier. Not impossible, but definitely tricky.

  That log was still his best bet. It would give him the best line of sight and still provide enough cover for him. He studied the ground between here and there, realized luck was with him. A plan quickly formed in his mind and he leaned down, caught Kelsey's gaze with his own.

  "Stay here. Don't move." Her eyes widened and she shook her head, curled one hand around his shoulder as if that would keep him in place. He closed his hand over hers and gently eased it away, then leaned even closer and mouthed the words again.

  "Stay here. Don't move." And damn if it didn't look like she was ready to argue with him. He clenched his jaw, shot her a warning look that would have had his men shitting in their boots. Then, because why the fuck not, he dropped a quick kiss against her forehead. Yeah, he needed his fucking head examined. But what the hell—it shut her up. She was still staring at him, her mouth opened in a small circle of shock as he pushed to his feet and ran in a crouch to the next closest tree.

  Just as he expected, gunfire echoed behind him. Five shots. Pop-pop-pop. Pop-pop. Two guns—not three. Why the fuck were only two of them firing? Where was the third guy?

  He heard hushed voices, low and gruff, the words inaudible from this distance—but he heard enough to make out two distinct voices. Again, he wondered about the third guy. Had he heard wrong? Had there only been two to begin with?

  No, there was nothing wrong with his hearing—there had definitely been three. The two clowns who had just fired, too close to each other to be effective, and Mr. Wheezy several yards to their right.

  Daryl really, really wanted to know where Wheezy was right now.

  The pair weren't even trying to be quiet. Hell, he could track their movements by the sound of their feet scuffling in the leaves. By the sound of their hushed voices as they spoke to one another.

  And then, damn, one of them actually cleared his fucking throat like he was preparing to make a speech. Daryl had to fight the urge to roll his eyes as he eased around the trunk, searched for the tell-tale movement that would give away their exact position.

  There, twenty yards away, at
his eleven. Piece of cake. He sighted in, took aim—

  "We just want the girl. Not you."

  What. The. Fuck. Were they fucking serious?

  Daryl squeezed the trigger, felt the small jump of the weapon in his hand, smelled the reassuring acrid scent of gunpowder. From twenty yards away came a surprised grunt and a wet gurgle, followed by the sound of a body crumpling to the ground.

  Damn. He'd been hoping for the head shot but his aim had been off the slightest bit. Still not bad considering it had been a blind shot. Yeah, too damn bad—for the other guy. As far as Daryl was concerned, dead was dead.

  There was a moment of stunned silence followed a high-pitched burst of outrage. Damn guy screamed like a fucking girl—or like someone had jammed his nuts in a vice and was squeezing the hell out of them.

  Now there was a thought—

  More shots, fired in rapid succession. It didn't matter because Daryl was already moving, heading toward his next position.

  Pop. Pop-pop-pop. Pop. Pop-pop. Pop.

  Click.

  Well hell, now didn't that just suck. The guy must not have been paying attention. Asshole was totally not having a good day—and it was about to get even worse.

  He sighted in, took aim and started to squeeze the trigger—

  Stopped when he heard a low-pitched trilling that wasn't quite a whistle. Once. Twice. Three times.

  Three shooters.

  All three accounted for.

  Daryl lowered his weapon and bit back a laugh. Pushed to his feet and brushed the leaves and dirt from his pants before moving toward that awful whistling sound. Mac emerged from the brush where the two shooters had been. A few minutes later, Chaos strolled out from behind a thick cropping of trees, a fucking grin on his face like he was doing nothing more than going for a leisurely stroll.