My Protector (Once a SEAL, Always a SEAL Book 5)

by Layla Valentine

  “Are your affairs in order?” I ask. This is something I ask all my clients, ever since the gas station owner who died in his attempt to contact his mother. If he had told her something—anything—before disappearing, he might not have felt the need to contact her after the fact. They might both still be alive. As a consequence, I advise my clients to speak to their loved ones before I erase them. They can’t reveal where they’re going or why, of course, but often it helps to let family members know that something might be about to happen.

  “My daughter…” Shears pauses. “I didn’t exactly tell her.”

  “I told you to tell her,” I say.

  “I couldn’t,” he says helplessly. “What do you say to your kid when you know it’s the last time you’re ever going to speak with her? How do you explain that? How would you ever end the conversation if you knew there wouldn’t be another one? You couldn’t do it. I couldn’t. I had to pretend things were normal.”

  “Is she close by?” I ask. I’m trying to maintain a calm demeanor, but this makes it hard. My mind is racing, going over the strategy for Shears’ disappearance. “If she tries to drop by your house in the next day or so, this could really blow up in our faces. We don’t want your absence discovered until—”

  “No, no,” Shears cuts me off. “She won’t be coming by.”

  “There’s no way?”

  “It’s…extremely unlikely.”

  “Why?”

  “She isn’t local,” Shears explains. “It would mean going out of her way.”

  “You understand this isn’t just about you, right?” I say. “Boetsch could be staking out your house. If someone he doesn’t recognize arrives, he might decide to try to gain some leverage over you.”

  Shears’ head darts up like a bird’s. “Leverage?”

  “Use your imagination.”

  A horrified expression crawls across Shears’ face, and I can see that he understands what harm he might have caused. “You can’t let anything happen to her,” he says. “Please. You have to do something.”

  I’m immensely frustrated. I have to do something? This isn’t part of my job. This isn’t my responsibility. I make people disappear; I don’t hold the hands of the ones they leave behind. That was his job. I gave him all the information he needed. I told him what he had to do. He dropped the ball, and now he’s turning to me to pick it up?

  But as irritated as I am, I know I’m going to have to step up. I can’t handle the thought of another person dying because of my actions. Even though that gas station owner wasn’t my fault, his death keeps me up at night. I know it wasn’t my fault. I tell myself over and over that he made his own choices. I still go over it in my mind every time I drive past that run-down old station, trying to figure out what I could have done differently. How could I have more effectively delivered the message so it would sink in and he would listen?

  Shears’ daughter isn’t my problem, not directly. But if I don’t act, I’ll always know I could have. If something happens to her, that’ll be on my conscience forever.

  “Fine,” I say. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “What are you going to do?” His face is a mask of anxiety. It’s really sinking in for him now. He has to abandon every facet of his old life. He can’t call his daughter tomorrow and make sure she’s okay. He has to trust that I’m going to do what I say I’m going to do. And he has to trust that it’s going to work. Putting his own life in my hands is one thing, but trusting me with his daughter…that’s got to be much harder.

  But he should have thought of that before he failed to take care of the matter himself. “I’m sorry,” I say. My voice is almost expressionless. “I can’t tell you. You’re just going to have to trust me.”

  He wants to argue. I can see it in his eyes. But he stops, takes a breath, and composes himself. I have to respect that. Plenty of my clients would lose it here, but Shears seems to be made of sterner stuff. He gathers his manila envelope full of identifying documents and his new cellphone and tucks them into various pockets of his coat.

  “You know where to go?” I ask.

  He nods and pats his breast pocket. “I’ve got the address here.”

  “Get a job,” I say. “Something blue collar. Blend in. Be friendly, but don’t get close to anyone. Don’t give people a reason to notice or remember you.”

  “That’s my life now, isn’t it,” he says. He lets out a sigh. “Not being noticed.”

  I nod. “That’s how you disappear.”

  Chapter 4

  Jenna

  Logan International is my fourth airport on this journey, and I’m starting to feel exhausted. I’ve been in the air for seven hours straight, from Paris to here, and although I can see by the giant clock mounted on the wall that it’s noon in Boston, it feels like it should be evening. Usually, I’m pretty good at shaking off jet lag, but I’ve been through so many time zones today that I’m no longer even sure what day it is.

  Still, as I step off the jetway and into the building itself, I have to admit that it’s good to be here. In-flight meals leave a lot to be desired, and there’s a restaurant at this airport that I’ve been looking forward to stopping at all day. They have the most amazing crab cakes I’ve ever eaten. My layover here is short—only an hour before boarding starts for my next flight—but that’s enough time. Maybe I’ll even get a second serving of crab cakes to go and have it boxed up so I can eat it on the next flight.

  One more flight. One more short hop and I’ll finally be back in Manchester.

  I let myself daydream a little about my high-end apartment, the refrigerator I know I left well-stocked, the air conditioning I always run at 67 degrees, my plush sofa and big screen TV. Thank God it’s Friday; I can go home and forget about work and responsibility for a few days. I can binge-watch reality TV and order food every night, and maybe do some online shopping.

  I hike my shoulder bag up, securing my grip, and feel around in the pocket for my wallet. While I’m searching, my fingers brush over the edges of my passport. It’s always a good feeling to know that you still have your passport after an international trip. I have a bit of a phobia of losing mine and getting stuck somewhere. Dad calls me a control freak because I get so stressed when things are happening that I can’t control. Being stranded in France would definitely qualify.

  Palming my credit card, I begin scanning the airport to get my bearings. I know that restaurant is around here somewhere—at least, I think it is. We’re on concourse B, and I thought it was here, but if I have to travel to another concourse to find the place, I’m going to have to give up on my crab cakes. I don’t have time to do that and still make my flight.

  As I’m looking around, though, my gaze catches on a sign. It’s being held by a tall, handsome man, wearing a uniform of sorts, standing near the jetway. He’s pivoting slowly as if to make sure that everyone around him sees the sign.

  The sign has my name on it.

  I feel like my whole body is exhaling in relief. It’s not the first time my company has done this—sent someone to meet me somewhere—and it almost always results in an easier trip for me. They likely decided to send a driver since I’m already in Boston and Manchester is only about an hour away. God, wouldn’t it be nice to relax in a luxury car for this last leg of the trip? To have plenty of legroom, none of the stressful ambient noise caused by other air travelers, no headache brought on by the changing cabin pressure…sounds fantastic. I want to call my boss right now and sing her praises.

  I walk over to the man with the sign. “Are you for me?”

  “Jenna?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  He nods briskly. “Yes, I’ve been sent to pick you up.”

  “That is so awesome,” I say. “I really appreciate it. You have no idea the day I’ve had.”

  “Just doing my job, ma’am.”

  “What’s your name?” I ask. I always try to be friendly with people in service jobs.

  But he doesn’t answer
right away. It’s as if he doesn’t want to talk to me. The vibe he’s giving off is almost hostile, like I’m causing him a huge inconvenience by being picked up at the airport. I’m sure he’s being paid for this, so why is he acting so put out about it?

  Some people don’t like their jobs, of course, and maybe he’s one of them. Honestly, I sort of feel bad for him. Imagine having to pick people up at the airport and not being a people person. That would be terrible.

  His jaw clenches. “My name’s Mack,” he says. “Right this way, ma’am.”

  He leads me out of the building to a black town car idling at the curb. “What about my luggage?” I ask. He opens the door for me.

  “That’s being seen to,” he says.

  “What does that mean? Aren’t we going to collect it?”

  “One of my associates will be collecting it. We’ll ensure that it gets to you. Now, if you don’t mind?” He gestures to the open car door.

  I don’t get in. “Why aren’t we going to get my bag? It wouldn’t take that long. There are things I need in there.”

  “Ma’am, the car isn’t able to park here,” the man says. “Your luggage can’t be retrieved since Boston isn’t your original final destination. An associate of mine will pick up your bag in Manchester. You’ll have it back by the end of the evening. Now, please get in the car.” He checks his watch, looking harried.

  I get in the car. I honestly feel like he’s about to start yelling at me or something, and I hope there’s an opportunity later to fill out a review of his service. I’ll be giving him low marks for sure. If he isn’t able to leave the car, how was he able to come in and wait for me at the gate? That doesn’t make sense.

  Still, the car is nice, and I’m glad to be in it. The seats are comfortable. Soothing jazz music is playing at a low volume, and I lean back and close my eyes. This is definitely better than being on another plane. I reach into my carryon bag and pull out a leftover packet of cocktail peanuts from the last flight, smirking at my own ingenuity. Now the car ride beats the plane ride in every way.

  “No food in the car,” the driver calls back to me.

  “It’s just peanuts.” I show him.

  “Rules are rules,” he says.

  Annoyed, I pop one peanut into my mouth and chew it loudly before putting the others away. I know rules are rules but come on. I wasn’t going to make a mess with cocktail peanuts.

  An hour later, the familiar sights of Manchester are all around me. I can’t help but smile as I take them in. It’s always so good to be home. We pass my favorite coffee shop, and I think maybe I’ll stop in later for a late cup of tea. And maybe I’ll visit the used bookstore, on the same strip, where you can sometimes find fabulous, old first editions of the classics. Maybe I’ll uncover something to add to my collection.

  “Hang on,” I say. The driver has just gone zipping past my neighborhood. I look over my shoulder, watching it recede in the distance. “You missed the turn.”

  He ignores me.

  “Hey, Mack.” I reach into the front seat and tap him on the shoulder. I know I’m being rude, but for God’s sake, he’s the driver. He should know where we are going. “You missed the turn. My apartment is back that way.”

  “I know where your apartment is,” the driver says.

  And then I hear the scariest noise I’ve ever heard in my life—the thunk of door locks being engaged. I’m locked in.

  “Stop the car,” I say. I’m trying to sound authoritative, but I can hear the quaking in my own voice. “Stop the car and let me out right now.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I can’t let you out until we’ve reached our destination.”

  “But where are we going?” My breath is coming dangerously fast now. Am I seriously being kidnapped?

  “I can’t tell you that,” the driver says.

  But we’re already on the far edge of Manchester, and he’s not stopping, not turning off the main road that takes you back out onto the highway. We’re leaving town. Oh, God, we’re leaving town. He could be taking me anywhere.

  “Why are you doing this?” I ask. My voice sounds tearful, and I swallow hard, trying to get it under control. I don’t want this man to see how afraid I am.

  “I was hired by your father,” he says. “That’s all I can say right now.”

  Hired by my father? I’m so shocked that I fall silent, unsure of what to say next. This isn’t like Dad. He’s never even sent a car to pick me up at the airport before, much less under such suspicious circumstances. I’m not sure my dad could even afford to send a car like this. It doesn’t add up at all.

  Then again, Dad would find the money if the circumstances demanded it. He’s always moved heaven and earth to make sure I was well taken care of, and if he thought I needed something, he would find a way to pay for it.

  But why would I need to be picked up by a town car? That doesn’t make sense either. It’s not like I didn’t have a flight out of Logan, a way to get home. This was a luxury, not a necessity.

  I shake myself. What am I thinking? This isn’t a luxury or a necessity, it’s a kidnapping! I’m being held against my will, being driven away from my home to an unknown destination. And I can’t think of any reason my father would do something like this. Even if I’m in danger, which seems unlikely, he would have known how terrifying this would be. He wouldn’t do this to me.

  I remember, suddenly, my dad’s call to me while I was still in France. It seems like half a lifetime ago, what with all the traveling I’ve done since then, but now it comes rushing back—the strange way he talked to me on the phone. The way he asked me where I was but had no follow-up questions about my trip, even though the Dad I knew would ordinarily want to know everything I’d seen. He’d want to harangue me for not getting out of the hotel more and taking advantage of the opportunity I’d been given to travel. And I’d try to explain for the hundredth time that work kept me too busy to see the sights. It’s a playful argument we’ve had on and off since I was started my job, but this time he didn’t engage. It was strange.

  And he told me he loved me. I mean, I know Dad loves me, but he doesn’t tell me like that. Did he know something was wrong? Maybe he’s in trouble. Is this man really working for him, or is something more sinister going on?

  “Are you taking me to him?” I ask, but the driver doesn’t answer, and I know there’s no point in trying to force information out of him. I slump in my seat, knowing the situation has been entirely wrested from my control, waiting to see what will happen next.

  Two hours later, I’m gazing listlessly out the car window, waiting to see anything that will give me my bearings. A while ago, I leaned across the seat to check the compass on the dash and saw that we were going north. I think we’ve been going north this whole time. And we haven’t passed a border crossing into Canada—I would have noticed that—so I’m pretty sure we’re still in New Hampshire.

  I feel like it’s getting close to midnight, but of course, it isn’t. It’s still light outside. The jet lag is really getting to me, and I have to think all this extra stress probably has something to do with that. I’ve turned around to lie horizontally on the seat, using my carryon bag as a pillow to prop my head up so I can look out the window. We’re in the mountains now, on a two-lane stretch of highway that seems to wind endlessly through tree-covered peaks.

  Finally, my driver turns onto a side road. It’s one of those mountain ascending roads with no guardrail in most places, and I’m glad I’m not driving, but I’m also completely petrified. If he wants to kill me, all he has to do is slam on the accelerator and jump out of the car at the last second. He doesn’t seem to be intent on doing that, though. He bypasses the opportunity on several straightaways, instead opting to drive at a responsible speed, carefully hugging each curve of the road. Finally, he pulls to a stop in front of a tiny wooden cabin, unlocks the doors, and gets out.

  I exit the car without even thinking about it, without stopping to decide whether following him
into that cabin is really any better. I am done being in the car with this man, letting him decide my fate. He goes into the cabin, leaving the door open behind him, and I sense I’m supposed to follow, so I do. I’m not stupid enough to make a break for it in these mountains.

  The cabin consists of a single room. There’s a bed in one corner and a bathroom separated from the rest of the space by a sliding door. In the kitchen, I see a sink, an oven, a stove, and a refrigerator. It’s impossible to tell whether or not they’re functional. The driver goes back out to the car and returns with grocery bags. He begins unloading dry goods into the cabinets, utterly ignoring me.

  I walk over to the bed, feeling dazed, set down my bag, and take a seat. My father isn’t here, and there’s no sign that he has been.

  Was the driver lying about having been hired by Dad? Or has something terrible happened? Could it be that Dad was supposed to meet me here, and has been somehow prevented from doing so?

  All I can do is wait and hope for answers.

  Chapter 5

  Jenna

  The driver has been out to the car and back five times now. Each time, he carries a box with the flaps tucked in. I suspect these boxes contain provisions, supplies that will allow him to keep me here for an indefinite amount of time. Which, on the one hand, is good—he wouldn’t need supplies if he was planning to kill me, right? But on the other hand, how long exactly are we going to be here?

  I take deep breaths, trying to calm myself. Panicking is no good. I need to keep it together. He’s bigger than I am and looks fit as hell. His biceps look ready to bust through his shirt, and solid thighs flex beneath his pants when he lifts each heavy box. I doubt I could take him in a fight, but if he gets careless, maybe I could run. If only I weren’t still wearing my business suit and heels. If only I’d been more like those other travelers I saw, the ones who put on sweats and jogging pants for long flights.