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

by Lisa B. Kamps

  But Kelsey didn't have his resources. Neither did Davis. Hell, Daryl hadn't had his own resources back then, either. It had taken him years to build the contacts, years of cultivating careful relationships in the shadows before being able to call in some favors and get to where he was now. To get CSS up and running. But he'd done it. They'd done it—him and Mac and Jon. And once they'd started, things had taken off faster than they expected.

  But that was now. Back then, all those years ago when he'd lost Layla—no, he hadn't known what the fuck to do.

  If he'd been in Kelsey's shoes, would he have done the same thing? If he had known what would happen, would he have taken Layla from her mother and put her in hiding?

  He didn't even have to think of the answer—it was a resounding hell, yes. Because he remembered how fucking helpless he'd felt the day Melissa had walked out. Remembered how fucking inept he'd been, not knowing what to do or who to go to for help. All he'd been able to focus on was Layla's tear-streaked face as she clung to her bunny and made him promise he'd see her soon.

  Yeah, you better fucking believe he'd have taken her that day if he'd known what was going to happen.

  Fuck.

  Daryl clenched his jaw, closed his eyes. Reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose. Anything to put that fucking day behind him.

  He needed to get that image out of his head. Needed to leave it in the dark corner of his soul where he'd forced it to hide nine years ago. He'd spent a year after the accident fighting for his sanity, for something resembling normalcy. For direction.

  Allen Davis had given it to him. And now he'd given him something else as well, placed something even more important in Daryl's hands: the safety of his daughter. His granddaughter.

  Now he just needed to figure out how the fuck he was going to make that happen.

  "Let me guess: we're heading to New Mexico."

  Daryl opened his eyes, met Mac's steady gaze then slowly shook his head. "No."

  "No?"

  "No." Daryl repeated the word. From the way both men were staring at him, he knew they thought he'd just lost his mind. Hell, even Boomer popped his head over the back of the seat and gave him the hairy eyeball.

  "Why the fuck not?" The question came from Mac, his gravelly voice making the words even harsher.

  "Think about it. The girl has been there for six months. Nobody knows where she is. She's safe. We move her from there and we run the risk of this Byrne finding out somehow."

  "How's he going to do that? If we squirrel them away somewhere, he'll never find them—"

  "Like he wasn't supposed to find that damn cabin?" And yeah, that still fucking bothered Daryl. How the hell had those men found them? They sure as hell hadn't followed him—which meant they'd discovered it some other way.

  "Then what the hell do you plan on doing? You can't keep them separated—"

  "The hell I can't—"

  Boomer snorted. "Yeah. Good luck with that."

  Daryl ignored him and kept talking. "At least until I'm certain Byrne isn't going to be a problem."

  "And how are you going to do that? Take him out?"

  "If I have to, yeah."

  "Jesus." Chaos leaned closer, lowered his voice. "Have you lost your fucking mind? This isn't like taking down a lone wolf terrorist or some random crazy fuck. It's like a damn cell: you cut the head off and another grows right back. You take him down and his entire organization will come after you."

  "Then I deal with that when it happens."

  The three men stared at him, saying nothing. Yeah, he knew he sounded fucking ridiculous—not to mention blood-thirsty as hell. That wasn't how they operated. Going in and leveling anything—or anyone—in their path was so far out of procedure that even he wondered if maybe he was losing his mind. No, not his mind—his impartiality.

  Even knowing that, he couldn't think of a better plan because no matter how he looked at it, Kelsey and her daughter wouldn't be safe until Byrne was stopped. Therefore, he had to stop Byrne. It was as simple as that.

  Simple. Yeah, sure it was.

  "You sure you're not letting emotion get in the way of your judgment on this one?"

  Daryl's gaze shot to Boomer's. He narrowed his eyes, ground his teeth. But he didn't say anything—because Mac beat him to it.

  "What the fuck are you talking about?"

  Boomer motioned toward the front of the plane with a quick tilt of his head. "You don't recognize her? No, wait, you wouldn't. You never came out of that fucking bungalow." Boomer's gaze shifted to Chaos. "But you should."

  Chaos shifted in the seat, leaned forward and craned his neck in an effort to see up front. And shit, could he be any more fucking obvious?

  He sat back with a frown. "What are you talking about?"

  "You don't recognize her?" There was surprise in Boomer's voice. Daryl wanted to reach up and wrap both hands around the man's neck and fucking strangle him. But it was too late because he kept talking. "Long blonde hair. Legs that went all the way up to her—"

  "That's enough—"

  "Holy shit." Chaos leaned forward again, shook his head, then turned toward Daryl. "No fucking way. She's the one you hooked up with at Mac's wedding."

  "What?" Now Mac was leaning forward, craning his neck to look up front. "How the hell did I miss that?"

  "You missed it because you never came out of that fucking bungalow."

  "The hell we didn't."

  "No, you didn't. At least not for the two days we were there after the wedding."

  Mac ignored Boomer's taunt, turned to Daryl with a frown. "So you know her?"

  "Not really, no."

  "But you knew who she was?"

  "We weren't exactly exchanging names and phone numbers, no."

  "Wait." Chaos leaned forward, lowered his voice even though there was nobody to overhear him. "Did she know who you were? When she met you down there, I mean."

  Daryl placed both hands flat against his thighs. If he didn't, there was a damn good chance he'd throttle all three men, starting with Chaos and ending with Mac. "Yeah, she knew who I was."

  "Jesus." Chaos sat back, shook his head. "She fucking played you."

  Daryl wanted to deny it. Wanted to argue with Chaos and tell him he didn't know what the fuck he was talking about. Wanted to smash his fist into the faces of all three men so they'd stop looking at him like that. The problem was, he couldn't. Not when Chaos was right. Yeah, he'd been played. Maybe not in the way Chaos actually meant but the fact remained that Kelsey had known exactly who he was when he walked up to her that afternoon three months ago.

  And she hadn't said a damn thing to let him know.

  "She's the one you told me about?" Mac's voice was pitched low enough that only Daryl could hear it. "The one who left you that fucking rock around your neck that you won't take off?"

  Daryl shook his head and stood up, cursing himself for ever saying anything to Mac. He didn't bother to answer, didn't bother saying anything as he moved toward the front of the plane and took his seat next to Kelsey. She was still huddled in on herself, still sleeping.

  She didn't even stir an hour later when the plane touched down at the small airport in Middle River. Daryl leaned over, gently shook her shoulder—

  And was rewarded by a fist clipping his jaw.

  "Fuck!" Yeah, he should have fucking seen that coming. Dammit. He grabbed her wrist to keep her from swinging again, watched as panic ebbed from her shadowed eyes when she finally realized where she was, who she was with. Her arm relaxed and she tugged against his hold until he released her. She looked around the plane, twisted her head to the side and peered out the window.

  "Where are we?"

  "Martin's State Airport."

  "Where is that?"

  "In Maryland." Daryl stood, grabbed his bag and hers then moved to the side, waiting for her to stand.

  "Is—is Paige here? Are we going to get her now?"

  And fuck. That flare of hope in her eyes sliced something deep
inside him. He pushed it away, ignored it, shook his head.

  "No."

  And just like that, the hope morphed into anger. She shot to her feet and stepped toward him, stumbled and caught herself. "You said we were going to get Paige—"

  "And we will." At least, he would. No way in hell would he be taking Kelsey with him, not when he had no idea what kind of danger they might be facing. "But there are things we—"

  "You said—"

  "I know what I said." He kept talking as if she hadn't interrupted. "But there are things we need to take care of first. Plans we have to make."

  Her green-ringed hazel eyes met his for a long minute. He almost expected her to start arguing, to lash out again and demand to be taken to her daughter now. Or worse, to start crying again. He didn't think he could handle that again—seeing her break down once was more than enough, especially since he got the feeling that she wasn't a woman prone to emotional outbursts.

  Unless she was trying to shoot someone.

  And fuck. Yeah, that wasn't even funny.

  To his surprise, Kelsey simply nodded. "Then where are we going?"

  "Someplace where you'll be safe."

  She kept watching him, those eyes of hers carefully blank. He expected another argument, or at least another dozen questions. Instead, she simply reached for her bag. Daryl hesitated, finally handed it to her. She hoisted it over one shoulder, stepped around him, and headed for the exit without another word.

  Chapter Fifteen

  There was a soft knock on the door, so soft that Grady would have missed it if he hadn't been listening for it.

  Waiting for it.

  He placed the pictures in a neat pile, his gaze lingering on the top one as he admired Daniel's handiwork. A face, battered beyond recognition except for an unfortunate overbite. Blonde hair, stringy and matted with blood. A petite body, the limbs broken and mangled, the skin blistered and sliced.

  Poor lass. There had been no dignity in her death. No courage or fight—not that he had expected any.

  Poor lass, indeed. She hadn't died well. Not at all.

  A smile played around the edges of his mouth as he tucked the pictures into the middle drawer of the expensive desk. Satisfaction wound through him—the punishment meted out by Daniel's talented hands would serve as a lesson to all.

  Yes, a lesson.

  But he was still on edge. Restless. Impatient.

  Grady smoothed the front of the silk tie, adjusted the platinum-and-gold cufflinks at his wrists. Ran one hand over his hair, smoothing it so it wouldn't look as if he'd been running his fingers through it for the past several hours as he waited for news. Then he cleared his throat, his voice calm and controlled when he spoke.

  "Come in."

  The door opened and Daniel appeared. Shadows darkened the skin below his eyes and stubble covered his chin. His dark hair was disheveled, as if he himself had been running his hands through his own hair before coming to see Grady.

  Not a good sign. Not a good sign at all.

  Grady straightened, pinned his most loyal man with a narrowed gaze. "What is it?"

  "We received a call from someone who has contacts in West Virginia."

  "Yes? Did your brother finally succeed? Does he have the woman? Do they know where my granddaughter is?"

  Daniel's lips flattened in a tight line. His gaze—cold and carefully blank—shot to Grady's. For several seconds, the man said nothing. His gaze skittered away and he slowly shook his head. "No, sir. Michael and the others are gone."

  Grady lurched to his feet, placed both fists against the polished surface of his desk. "Gone? What do you mean, gone?"

  "They were killed, sir. Not far from the cabin where the woman was hiding."

  Killed? No, that couldn't be. How? Not by the woman—she didn't have the means. The skill. Yes, she was stubborn. Creative. Determined. But to be able to kill his own men?

  Grady yelled, a venting of pure anger and frustration that echoed off the paneled walls. In a rare burst of fury, he swept his hands across the desk, sending everything on it flying. A Waterford crystal paperweight. His Mont Blanc fountain pen. A stack of files and his prized first edition of James Joyce's Ulysses—a book that had never been opened, a story that had never been read.

  He stared at the destruction around him, forced himself to calm. To inhale deeply through his nose, exhale slowly through his mouth. Again. One more time, until his fury gradually abated.

  He turned to Daniel, noticed the man hadn't moved. He stood still, his gaze carefully averted from the mess littering the floor. "How?"

  "Michael was shot." Daniel paused. Swallowed. "In the throat. The other two men had their necks snapped."

  Grady swore. Curled his hands into fists and stared out the window. "Someone is helping her."

  "Yes, sir."

  "We need to find out who."

  "Yes, sir."

  Grady turned, caught Daniel's gaze and smiled. The man was careful enough not to flinch, smart enough to show no emotion. "I believe it's time we pay this Theresa Martin a visit. I believe she may have some information for us."

  "Make the arrangements. I want to leave within the hour."

  "Yes, sir." Daniel nodded then left, quietly closed the door behind him. Grady turned back to the window, the chilling smile still in place.

  Yes, it was time to pay this woman—the father's friend—a visit. Any information she had would soon be Grady's.

  And then he would do what he should have done long ago—

  He would go after the woman himself. Find his granddaughter and bring her home.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The someplace safe Daryl had mentioned on the plane turned out to be his house. At least, Kelsey figured the driveway they pulled into belonged to him. He put the SUV in Park, cut the ignition, then stared at the split level in front of them.

  The house looked like any other average split-level house, with nothing to set it apart from the houses they'd passed to get here. A sidewalk lined with the remains of summer flowers led to the door. The landscaping at the front of the house was well-maintained and clipped back.

  It was nothing more than a regular house, which almost disappointed Kelsey. For some reason, she'd been expecting something more...fortified? Unusual? She had no idea. The only thing out of the ordinary was the uphill drive to reach it—Daryl's house sat off by itself at the top of a steep hill, far away from any neighbors. And the view—now that, at least, was impressive. She could see the main street below, the tops of houses and buildings and, in the distance, rolling hills painted in the muted oranges and reds of leftover fall color.

  But Kelsey wasn't here for the view. She wasn't sure why she was here, period, except that Daryl felt the need to bring her someplace safe. She didn't care about being safe—all she cared about was getting to her daughter. That wouldn't happen until Daryl took her there because he was the only one who knew where Paige was.

  And right now, he wasn't moving.

  Kelsey glanced over at him, studied the rigid set of his shoulders and jaw, watched the way his hands tightened around the steering wheel. He looked as on-edge as she felt. Tired and weary, an impression made even stronger by his disheveled appearance. Thick stubble covered his strong jaw and his hair—shorter than it had been in the Caribbean—looked like he'd been raking his fingers through it for the past five hours. For all she knew, he had been doing just that because the last few hours were nothing more than a blur to her.

  Then he turned his head and those amber eyes met hers, strong and fierce and unreadable. Had she honestly just thought he looked tired and weary? She had never been more wrong. The man staring at her was a predator, dangerous and intense, nothing at all like the man she had met a few months ago. She knew that, had known it the second she landed flat on her back behind the tiny cabin with his familiar weight stretched out on top of her. Yes, she knew it—and she could never let herself forget it.

  She forced her gaze from his and looked at the
house in front of them. "Who lives here?"

  "I do." He opened the door, climbed out then paused, looking at her once more. "You'll be safe here."

  Safe from everyone else, yes. But would she be safe from him?

  Kelsey pushed that thought from her mind—he'd given her no reason at all to think she wouldn't be safe from him. Even when she had fought him earlier this morning, he'd been holding back, careful not to hurt her no matter how much she struggled and hit and kick.

  She climbed out of the SUV, tossed her bag over her shoulder then followed him up the sidewalk. He didn't say anything as he unlocked the door, as he stepped inside and quickly punched in a long string of numbers on the alarm panel. He held the door open, motioned her inside with a casual wave of his hand.

  "I haven't been home for close to two weeks. The place probably needs to be aired out."

  "Why so long?"

  "Business." The answer was curt, leaving no room for more questions. Fair enough, since she hadn't planned on asking in the first place.

  She stepped around him, hesitated then made her way up the short flight of steps. The upstairs was a large open floor plan: living room and combination country kitchen and dining room to her right, a short hallway to her left. What she saw was tastefully decorated in masculine earth tones—rusts and dark greens and light tans. Framed artwork hung in clusters on the walls, landscapes and a few abstracts mixed together.

  It looked...normal. She didn't know why that surprised her, unless she'd been subconsciously expecting animal heads and military paraphernalia.

  "Bedrooms are back this way."

  She hesitated for a brief second, only slightly panicked until she realized what he had said: bedrooms. Plural. Sure enough, he stopped at the first closed door on the right, twisted the knob and pushed it open.

  "This one has its own bathroom. The other bathroom is here—" He motioned to the closed door to the left then pointed to another door on the right. "And the second spare room is right there. Bed's smaller, though, and it doesn't have its own bath."