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

by Lisa B. Kamps

  They went off the side of the road, bounced across a small ditch and pitched sideways. Kelsey screamed, the sound drowning at the frightened cries of her daughter. Daryl grabbed for the seat, the console, anything to anchor himself as the small vehicle tilted sideways. As it rolled—

  Pain shot through his left shoulder. His cheek. His left temple. Screams echoed in his ears as the world around him tumbled and bounced with dizzying speed before abruptly righting itself.

  Before coming to a deadly stop.

  He blinked, shook his head then looked around. They were sitting off the road in a rough patch of scrub and dirt, pointing in the opposite direction they'd been heading. The car that had been following them had come to a stop five yards away. Doors opened and three men got out, two of them holding weapons—pointing them at the SUV.

  He glanced toward the front, blinked until Wolf came into focus. Blood streamed from a gash in the man's head but other than that, he seemed fine. He was leaning over the wheel, swearing as he pressed the ignition button over and over.

  "Wolf—"

  "I'm trying."

  Trying—but it wasn't working. Even if the other man could get the SUV to start, they had nowhere to go.

  "Kelsey, are you okay?" He turned his head, saw her nod. The little girl was crying, quiet sobs that shook her small shoulders. Kelsey leaned over her, tried to quiet her as she sent a pleading look in Daryl's direction.

  "Kelsey, get Paige out of the car seat. Go out the door and stay down."

  "But—"

  "Do it. Now." He turned to Wolf but the other man was already scrambling across the front passenger seat and opening the door. Daryl waited until he was out then quickly looked around, searching for his weapon. There, just under the front seat. He leaned down for it—

  And the glass of the door window shattered above his head.

  "Fuck!" He closed his hand over the grip of the pistol and dove out the open door head-first. Kelsey was crouched near the front tire, her body curled protectively around her daughter. Wolf was in front of her, weapon at the ready.

  Daryl scrambled toward the rear tire, took cover and peered around the crushed bumper. The men hadn't moved. Damn fools. If Daryl had been in their shoes, he would have already flanked the SUV, come at them from both sides while they were still inside, trapping them.

  They had made a huge tactical error by not moving in when they had a chance—and now they were going to pay.

  "Gentleman, my fight was never with you—not until you disposed of my men. I'm willing to forgive that error as long as you give me the woman and the girl." The voice was clear, well-modulated, with the faintest trace of a lilt.

  Daryl glanced over his shoulder, met Wolf's what-the-fuck gaze with one of his own. He nodded, held his left fist out to the side with a grimace and slowly raised his fingers.

  One.

  Two.

  Three—

  Daryl and Wolf spun toward the men at the same time, firing off several quick rounds each. A grunt. A scream. A string of curses abruptly cut off before someone was smart enough to return fire.

  Then silence. Long. Tense. A minute went by, then another, until the silence was finally broken by a muffled whimper of pain. Even that was cut short, abruptly silenced by a single shot.

  Daryl risked a glance around the rear of the car. Just a quick one but it was enough to confirm his suspicions. Holy shit. Fuck. Grady Byrne had just shot his own fucking man in the head.

  That made it two against two—and Byrne's second man looked like he'd been injured, shot in the arm. Ready to run if given the opportunity. What had Chaos said? That only a few men were loyal to Byrne?

  Yeah, maybe not.

  "That's another man you've cost me. My patience wears thin, gentlemen. Give me my granddaughter."

  "She's not your granddaughter! She'll never be yours!"

  What the fuck? Daryl turned toward Kelsey, tried to catch her eye and tell her to shut but she wasn't looking at him. She was still curled around Paige, a fierce expression etched onto her pale face. And fuck, they needed to end this. Now. Before she did something completely stupid.

  He nodded at Wolf, got into position—

  "Ah, Kelsey. You're such a stubborn lass, aren't you? But we both know you're lying, don't we? The girl is my bastard son's offspring—which means she's mine."

  "No, she's not! She—"

  Enough of this fucking shit. He signaled Wolf, launched himself around the rear of the SUV and opened fire. One shot. Two. Three.

  Byrne's man fell in a crumpled heap, his weapon no longer a danger to anyone. That left Byrne himself.

  Daryl watched, detached, as Byrne raised his weapon and fired. Felt fire explode in his left shoulder, ignored it as he pulled the trigger again. Felt another blast of fire, this one in his arm. He kept firing, watching through blurred vision as the other man toppled over backward, blood spraying from his chest.

  Daryl dropped to his knees, swayed and fell sideways. Tried to catch himself but his arm wasn't working, the fucking thing just twisted and collapsed as he landed on it. And fuck. Yeah, that fucking hurt.

  But not as much as the pain in his side. What the fuck? Had he fallen on something? A piece of glass, maybe? He tried to lift himself up, tried to roll so he could see what the fuck he'd fallen on but he couldn't move because his fucking arm wasn't working.

  Fuck.

  He blinked. Shook his head. Blinked again but he couldn't make out anything more than shadows. His ears were working just fine though because he heard Kelsey screaming, heard a little girl crying.

  Heard Wolf's calm voice telling him to stop fucking moving.

  Daryl opened his mouth, ready to tear Wolf a new one, to tell him to watch his fucking language, but no words came out. He tried again, finally gave up and closed his eyes.

  Felt himself floating.

  Higher. Higher still.

  Higher than the angels, where a little girl with wide brown eyes smiled down on him.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Four weeks later.

  "How's the shoulder?"

  "Fine."

  A pause. "How's your arm?"

  "Fine."

  "And your side?"

  "Fine. Everything is fucking fine." Daryl spit the last words, reached across the desk for another file and winced. Mac grunted but didn't say anything, just sat there and watched him.

  And kept on fucking watching him.

  Daryl narrowed his eyes, shot him a dirty look designed to make the other man turn tail and run. Mac didn't budge. Of course he didn't. He wasn't fucking smart enough to know when to run.

  No, scratch that. He was smart enough—he just didn't give a fuck. And it wasn't like Daryl was in any condition to kick his ass and throw him out of his office. The damn man knew it, too.

  He blew out a sigh, slammed the file shut and leaned back in the chair. Managed to do it without wincing, too. Thank God for fucking progress.

  "What's everyone's status?"

  "All present and accounted for, except for Boomer and Ninja. They went to retrieve a package."

  Daryl frowned, searched his mental database for any job that had come in requiring a package retrieval and came up empty. "I don't remember seeing anything about a retrieval—"

  "This is a two-legged one." Mac shifted in the chair, his lips curling in a scowl. "Boomer has personal ties to this one. Tore out of here about three hours ago. They already went wheels-up."

  "Personal?" Dammit! Was Daryl going to have to institute a new rule about personal missions? They needed to be off-limits, effective immediately. Nothing good came from personal missions—he was a perfect example of that.

  And hell, so was Mac—only Mac's mission had ended a thousand times better, considering he was now married to TR.

  He stared at the man still sitting across from him. Still watching him. He narrowed his eyes and glared. "Why are you even here? Don't you have something better to do with your time?"

  Mac ran
a hand over his jaw then shook his head. "Not particularly."

  "Then maybe you should go find something. I don't need you sitting there, staring at me."

  "That's because you know I'm right."

  Shit. Was he really going to start this again? Daryl grabbed another file. Flipped it open and pretended to read, did his best to ignore Mac. But the other man didn't know when to quit because he leaned across the desk, snagged the file, and tossed it to the side.

  "It was a stupid fucking move."

  "Yeah, well. I wasn't planning on getting shot."

  "That's not what I'm fucking talking about and you know it."

  Yeah, he knew it—but he wasn't discussing it. Not now. Just like he hadn't discussed it the other fifty fucking times Mac had brought it up over the last two weeks. No, probably more than that. The problem was the first week was still pretty fuzzy.

  At least, most of it was. It would be ten times better if he couldn't remember all of it.

  "You should have gone after her."

  Daryl blew out a sigh, ran a hand through his hair. It was getting too long, he needed a fucking haircut—

  "What? Nothing to say?"

  Daryl slammed his hand against the desk. "No, dammit, I've got nothing to say. There's nothing to say. She left. She's gone. End of story."

  "Only because you let her."

  "Let her. Yeah, uh-huh. What was I supposed to do? Tie her down and hold her prisoner?"

  "Telling her how you feel would have been a good start."

  "How I feel?" Daryl laughed, the sound sharp and bitter. "There is no feel. Okay? There was nothing there. I don't know why you're so fucking convinced there was."

  "Is, not was. Bullshit yourself all you want but I know better. In all the years I've known you, I have never seen you like this."

  "Like what?"

  "Distracted. Out of control. On edge."

  "I haven't been—"

  "Yeah, you have. Deny it all you want but the only one you're lying to is yourself."

  "There's. Nothing. There." Daryl forced the words through clenched teeth, trying to get them through Mac's thick skull. But the other man just sat there, watching him with dark eyes filled with disbelief. "Fuck. We don't even know each other. We've probably spent less than ninety-six hours in each other's company—"

  "Who are you trying to convince now? Me? Or yourself?"

  "Dammit, Mac. Just let it go. She's gone, to God only knows where." Could Daryl blame her for running again? She'd taken off damn near as soon as they returned to Maryland, thirty-six hours after the confrontation with Byrne.

  Twelve hours after he'd signed guardianship of her daughter over to her. It was nothing more than a formality as far as he was concerned—the paperwork Davis had drawn up would never stand up in court. At least, Daryl didn't think so. But just in case, he'd signed the paperwork. That memory was pretty damn clear. So was the relief in Kelsey's eyes when he'd slid it across to her.

  Everything after that was still a blur. He thought she had stayed with him, his hand cradled in hers while she held Page on her lap. Thought he remembered the feel of her lips brushing against his. Thought he remembered her saying...something.

  Yeah. That was nothing more than his mind playing tricks on him because Kelsey was gone. She'd taken off again, leaving nothing behind.

  Nothing except a chunk of raw obsidian hanging from the leather cord around his neck.

  No, he couldn't blame her for taking off. Kelsey was safe now, but it would take her time to realize that. Take time to get used to the fact that she didn't have to run anymore. Didn't have to look over her shoulder. The bad guy was dead, her nightmare was over. She could settle down, build a life for her and her daughter. Start fresh, just like she had hoped.

  Mac stood up, slid the chair against the desk hard enough that it bounced back with a squeak of springs. "I never thought I'd see the day when you just fucking gave up without even trying."

  "Fuck you. I'm not giving up anything."

  "Yeah. Sure. Whatever. Suit yourself."

  Daryl started to say something, slammed his mouth closed when Mac stormed out of the office. Fuck it. There was nothing to say. Mac was fucking delusional, so in love with his own fucking wife that he thought everyone else should be, too.

  Yeah. Fuck it.

  Life didn't always work out that way. Daryl had learned that lesson years ago.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Kelsey ran a strip of tape along the top of the box, sealing it. That was the last box.

  The last bits of a life well-lived.

  She straightened, looked around the empty house. At the bare walls and clean floor. Nothing of her father remained.

  Nothing except memories.

  Most of the furnishings had been donated, along with his clothes. She found a veteran's organization who had gladly accepted them, had even come out to pick everything up. She thought her father would have liked that.

  His personal belongings—those that held sentimental value—had been carefully boxed up. It wasn't much—her father had been a minimalist. He'd spent too much time in the military to be anything but. And he'd never been one for collecting things, had always told her that his memories were more than enough.

  Memories.

  Yes, she had plenty of those. A lifetime of memories to pull out and look back on. To laugh and smile about and even some to cry over. But what about her daughter?

  She was only five. Did she remember Blaine? Her grandfather? Or were they nothing more than hazy images that floated to her in a dream? Images that would fade in time?

  Kelsey vowed to make sure they were much more than that. To keep their memories alive in her daughter's mind.

  She looked over at Paige, sitting quietly under the window, coloring. A brief spurt of panic washed over her and she nearly yanked her daughter away from the window—then stopped herself. The danger was gone. The nightmare was over.

  They were free. Finally.

  Would this whole thing be nothing more than a bad memory for Paige? Or would she somehow come to forget about it? How many images from the last three years would follow her through life? Would they form who she'd become in three years? Five? Ten? Would they make her stronger?

  Or would they do the opposite and make her afraid to take chances?

  Paige pushed to her feet, ran over with a brightly colored sheet of paper in her hand. "Look, Mommy. For you."

  Kelsey crouched next to her daughter and accepted the paper, studied the flowers and rainbow and the stick figure of a woman holding a little girl's hand. She smiled and pulled Paige into a hug, dropped a kiss on the top of her head. "Thank you, sweetie. It's very pretty."

  Paige nodded, took it back and carefully placed it in the folder with her other drawings.

  Were the colorful drawings a good sign? Kelsey could only hope so.

  She pushed to her feet, lifted the small box from the floor, and looked around one final time. There was nothing left for her to do here. The things she was keeping were already packed up and stored in the back of her car. The real estate agent had left a little while ago, Kelsey's phone number stored in her contacts. The house was officially on the market as of this morning and the agent was optimistic it wouldn't take long to sell.

  Maybe. Time would tell.

  She rested the box against her hip and dug the keys from her front pocket. There was one thing left for her to do and then they could leave. "You ready, sweetie?"

  Paige nodded, stuffed her folder of drawings into her backpack, and carefully zipped it. She pulled on her coat, grabbed the bag and her stuffed bear and hurried over to Kelsey, staying close by her side as they walked out of the house.

  Instead of going to her car, Kelsey made her way down the sidewalk, her steps slow enough for Paige to keep up. The early afternoon was sunny, the air crisp and clean. A few houses in the neighborhood had already decorated for the holidays, garland and lights covering windows and doors, reindeer and sleighs carefully plac
ed on the small front lawns.

  But not the house they were going to.

  Kelsey moved up the front walk, stopped in front of the door and hesitated. She started to knock but the door was already opening, revealing a bruised and swollen face still healing from violent injuries more than four weeks later.

  Kelsey blinked back tears, forced a smile as she greeted Theresa. "I wanted to say goodbye before we left."

  The woman nodded, stepped back to let them in. She smiled, but only the left side of her mouth moved—the right side was partially paralyzed, possibly permanently. It was a miracle the woman was out of the hospital—

  No. It was a miracle she was still alive after the brutal beating she had suffered at Grady Byrne's hands.

  "I was hoping you would." Theresa closed the door behind them and moved over to the sofa, her gait slow and uneven as she balanced herself on the cane. She sat down, shifted with a slight grimace, then patted the cushion next to her.

  "We can't stay long." Kelsey took a seat, glanced at the private duty nurse hovering a few feet away, then turned back to Theresa and offered her the box. "I wanted to drop this off."

  "I don't understand—"

  "They're some of Dad's things—"

  "Kelsey, no. I couldn't."

  "Please. He would have wanted you to have them." The mementos in the box were meant for the woman across from her, keepsakes from the time her father had spent with her. A few pictures. A black t-shirt from Sturgis, South Dakota, that still held the faint scent of her father's spicy aftershave. A black nylon lanyard with collector's pins from several National Parks—places her dad had visited with Theresa on motorcycle. Memories of a life they had shared—

  A life Kelsey hadn't even known about.

  She placed the box on Theresa's lap, swallowed against the lump in her throat when the woman reached out and gently caressed the lid. Kelsey could see the love in her misty eyes, could feel it shimmering in the air between them. On impulse, she grabbed the woman's good hand and squeezed it.