Guardian Angel: Flight or Fight

by Sean Michael

  Chapter One

  Hat?

  Check.

  Levis?

  Check.

  Six-string?

  Hoo-boy.

  Daniel smiled at Ben and Roxy, nodded when they gave him the thumbs-up.

  The crowd was screaming as the band played the opening chords of 'Damned Fine' and he took a deep, deep breath. Okay, Daniel. Time to show 'em what all you got.

  "Ladies and Gentlemen! Dusty Young!"

  The lights blinded him for a second, swirling blue and red and yellow, but he was expecting it, his fingers moving on the guitar strings automatically. The crowd was loud enough he couldn't hear himself play and he could feel it surge forward.

  Security, dressed head to toe in denim pushed them back, keeping the screaming fans from getting to the stage. He shook his ass, leaning down into the mic and started singing, pitching his voice deep and husky, grinning as the crowd went wild. Hell, yes. The girls up front tossed him flowers and underwear, one trying to toss herself on stage. A dark-haired security guard caught her around the waist and put her back on her feet in the midst of the crowd.

  Man, if they only knew what a waste of silky panties that was. He moved across the stage, dancing with Timmy and Darla, tsking under his breath as the two of them flirted wildly with each other. Horndogs.

  The show went off without a hitch, Daniel feeding off the audience, getting more and more pumped the longer the show went on. That fed the audience in return and near to the end of the final set of songs a girl got past security and onto the stage, launching herself at him. He stepped back, instinctively. The flash of metal startled him, and he put his hands up, stumbling over some cords. Someone large and denim-dressed pushed the girl out of the way before wrapping around him and pulling him toward the wings.

  "Jesus fucking Christ. Did she have a gun?" He stumbled along, heart just pounding. "Where are we going?"

  "Leaving the fucking building. Are you hurt anywhere, Mr. Young?" The arms around him were strong, the security guard tall, muscled, voice deep.

  "Leaving the... but I got a show to finish! The label's going fucking burn me."

  "Protocol is to get you out of the building until it's cleared, Mr. Young."

  "Cleared? You don't just..." A series of shots rang out and he went stiff. "Jesus fucking Christ! Tell me my band's being moved."

  Sweet fuck.

  Was he hurt?

  Did he even know?

  Shit.

  Shitshitshit.

  Mr. Muscles started running, pulling him along, not saying a word, just pulling him through the winding corridors of the concert hall. Suddenly they were out and he was being hustled into the back of a car, his security guard coming with him. He shook his head, trying to figure out what the hell just happened. "My guys. I need to get my guys."

  "You suddenly bullet-proof?" His protector nodded to the driver. "Get us out of here."

  The car peeled away, leaving the concert hall behind.

  "What the fuck?" He twisted, reaching in his back pocket for his cell. He'd call Aimee, tell his manager that this shit wasn't going to work.

  One big hand swallowed the phone up. "Sorry, Mr. Young. Protocol is that we get you out and that there's no contact until we know it's safe."

  The guy pulled out a walkie-talkie. "Archangel here, I've got the primary. What's going on back there?"

  "Chaos. Pure fucking chaos. Get the hell out of dodge."

  "Got you."

  The walkie-talkie was turned off and tucked away again in the denim jacket. "Location B."

  The driver nodded.

  "Bullshit. Give me my fucking phone." No fucking way. He was a singer, not the goddamn president. Something smelled like shit.

  His daddy always said, smelled like shit? Probably didn't taste like granny's biscuits.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Young, I can't do that." The warm brown eyes really did look sorry.

  Okay. Okay. Think. Keep talking. The next stop light. Hit the door. Bastard couldn't be locked in here, too. "Sure you can. This ain't national fucking security. It's country music."

  "That girl had a gun, Mr. Young. She very nearly shot you."

  "Yeah, yeah. Obviously the cops got her. Lemme check on my band." Okay, his door or try to take the big guy's door. He reached behind him, testing. Okay. Fuck. Fuck. Okay.

  "Don't try it," murmured his... captor?

  "What the fuck's going on?" Shit, now he was going into sorta scared. Fuck.

  "I'm just trying to keep you safe, Mr. Young."

  "Bullshit. I want my phone."

  "Just relax, Mr. Young." The guy leaned forward and murmured something to the driver who nodded.

  He took his chance as the car slowed, pushing himself across the man's back and driving toward the door. Whatever this was, it wasn't in his fucking contract and he was getting the hell out of Dodge. Daniel got the door handle and shoved it hard. Come on. Come on. Come on.

  "Whoa there!" A strong arm went around his waist, and he was pushed between the big body and the back of the car, his captor's other hand reaching over and pulling his hand off the car door. "Are you nuts? You're going to kill yourself!"

  "Let me out or give me my fucking phone." He was still buzzing from the concert, still vibrating from the adrenaline.

  The big asshole just shook his head, using sheer brute force to right him, put him back upright in his seat. "Sorry, Mr. Young. I just can't do that right now."

  "What the fuck is this?" He wrapped his hand around the neck of his guitar, holding on. He really didn't want to use her for a club. He would, but he didn't want to.

  "I'm taking you somewhere safe, Mr. Young. You're going to need to trust me." The man held out his hand. "I'm Rafe."

  "Safe from who? I didn't fall out of the fucking turnip truck this morning." He shook the man's hand once, refusing to release the guitar.

  Rafe's hand was warm and solid. His own hand was given a gentle squeeze. "I don't have any information to give you, but I can promise you that you won't be harmed. Not on my watch."

  The car was picking up speed, the street lights fading away behind them.

  Okay. Fuck. What was he supposed to do? "No information? Where are we going? Why won't you give me a phone? Who the fuck's paying your paycheck?"

  Those dark brown eyes looked at him. "What about 'no information' are you not getting here?"

  "The part where I'm in a strange fucking car with strange fucking muscle. This is fucking asinine."

  "Need to know basis, Mr. Young." Rafe turned to look out the window. "We'll be there soon."

  Okay, Dan. You aren't stupid. The second this car stops and your feet hit ground, you run and you run hard.

  They made the rest of the trip in silence, Rafe turning to look at him now and then, but not saying anything. From what he could see out the window, they'd left the city and were traveling through countryside. They slowed and turned right, onto a bumpy, unpaved road.

  Well, there couldn't be dick out in Oklahoma that he hadn't camped in out in West Texas.

  They pulled up in front of a big old farmhouse, two cars already in front of the house, both large, dark Lincoln Towncars.

  "All right, let’s get you inside."

  "Where are we?" He went to open his door.

  "Safehouse."

  The driver got out and came around to open his door for him.

  He'd played running back his entire fucking life, it wasn't anything to duck under one arm and run like hell, heading straight for the line of trees.

  ***

  Rafe wasn't surprised when Daniel Young ran as soon as he had the chance. The man wasn't an idiot and knew something was up, likely figured he was being kidnapped.
If it had been Rafe's choice, he'd have let the man in on what was going on, but need to know meant exactly that and what he knew was that he didn't give out any information unless he was told to.

  Hell, Daniel might not have believed him in any case.

  So he gave chase, impressed with the man's speed, but still catching him just past the tree line before Daniel had a chance to get in and hide. They went down like a ton of bricks, Daniel breaking his fall. Well, shit, he hoped he hadn't broken anything. Daniel grunted, gasping for air, the wind knocked right out of the man.

  He rolled, one arm and one leg wrapping around the man as his other hand roamed, looking for anything broken. There was a bit of a bloodied lip under that straw-colored mustache, but besides that? They were gold. Winded and still for right this second, but gold.

  "Sorry I landed on you, Mr. Young." He hauled himself and Daniel up and thought that the boss was going to be really proud of him for apologizing instead of going off on Daniel for running in the first place. Go him.

  "Now you can walk back and into the house on your own power or I can carry you in over my shoulder. That part is up to you, but you are going in."

  "I don't think so." Daniel's eyes were either panicked or furious, maybe both.

  "Oh, come on, Dusty, don't make me carry you." He knew it hadn't been easy on Dusty, but fuck, he'd just proven he could outrun the man and tackle him to the ground.

  That chin lifted, went stubborn and hard. "You fucking touch me and I'll knock you into next week. I've had seventeen hours of sleep in the last seven days. I'm supposed to be drinking a beer and congratulating my bass player right now and then heading home to Amarillo. I am not in a good fucking mood."

  "No, and mine's quickly heading south. Get in the house and I'll call my boss and see what I can tell you. I can probably even help with the beer."

  "What the fuck is going on?" The cowboy hat was slung off, the famous mass of gold curls bobbing.

  Damn, the man was downright pretty.

  He picked up the hat and handed it back. "I'm not at liberty to say. Now come on in with me and I'll call and see what I can tell you."

  The hat was taken from him, and Daniel stormed toward the house, cursing violently, hands clenched into fists. He followed, noting that the famous Dusty Young ass was indeed worth checking out.

  He dialed in as he climbed the front stairs. "It's Archangel. The primary's a little... hot under the collar. Would like to know what's going on."

  "Then tell him." The phone clicked and Rafe rolled his eyes.

  "You want some coffee, Daniel?"

  "No. I want fucking answers."

  "All right, but I need a cup of coffee first." He poured himself one, nodding at Ben who was in charge of perimeter security. He sat at the table in the kitchen, waiting for Daniel to sit, too. "How well do you know Sam Gaherty?" Sam was a new back up guitarist for Dusty. Not a nice man if the files he'd seen were anything to go by.

  The singer stopped his pacing from window to window, looked over. "He plays a decent riff; he'll never be great, but he won't starve. Why?"

  "You ever heard of the American Liberation League?"

  "Is that a band?"

  He snorted. "No, they're a militia group based right here in Oklahoma. From what we've put together, Sam was planted in with your band when the opening came up. The attack tonight was a set-up -- you were supposed to be kidnapped by the ALL."

  "Me? Kidnapped. Right. Uh... Still a hat show singer, man. Not Lindbergh's baby."

  "No? But you're hot right now. Even crossing over into the pop charts. It would be amazing publicity. And your label would pay dearly to get you back." He shrugged; Daniel didn't have to believe him. "Not to mention if they could convert you they'd have one hell of a spokesperson."

  "Okay. I'm saved. Give me my phone."

  "You think they're going to give up just because we got you out of there before they could take you?" His orders were to keep Daniel until he got the all clear.

  "Who the fuck do you work for?" Daniel picked up a paperweight, tossed it from hand to hand.

  "This is a joint FBI and ATF operation." He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his badge. "Agent Rafael Gialto."

  Daniel looked at him. Just stood, looked and turned for the door, muttering under his breath.

  "Hey! You can't go anywhere." He got up and headed Daniel off at the door. "We're trying to keep you safe, you know."

  "Tell the candid camera crew I'm not fucking amused." The paperweight went into the wood of the door, close enough to make him jump. "And get out of my way before I fucking rip your tongue out and beat you to death with it."

  "You think this is a joke? Do I look like I'm laughing?" He had half a mind to call the ALL and tip them off himself, just to see Daniel take him seriously.

  "Do I look like an idiot? I'm a piece-of-shit country singer in a band. If you were telling the truth, why the hell didn't you just take Sammy?"

  "Because we have a man undercover with ALL and if we took Sammy, he'd be dead right now."

  "Well you don't have him. You have me and I'm going home!" Fuck, the man was hot when he was pissed. And that line of thought was going to get him into trouble, especially with his prick following happily along.

  "We're pretty sure their plan B will be to take you from your home. You go back there you're going to walk right into that."

  "It doesn't make sense. You don't make sense. Fuck, I have a headache."

  "Look, you're safe here. It's late. Why don't you make use of the bedroom we've got for you and who knows, maybe by morning we'll have everything wrapped up."

  "Why can't I call Aimee? My mom?" Stubborn cowboy.

  "It's just a precaution. Come on, Mr. Young. Play ball with us until morning when we've all had a chance to sleep and have some up to date intel." And if Daniel refused him again he was going to use the back of his gun to knock the guy out.

  "This is the dumbest fucking thing I've ever experienced. Ever. Christ." Daniel patted through his pockets, growling. "Jesus fucking Christ, couldn't you steal me in real fucking clothes?"

  "I think your suitcase is up in your room," he noted dryly.

  "My motherfucking guitar had better be, too." The long hands were starting to shake, not much, just enough for him to see.

  He reached out and caught one in his, squeezed. "You need anything, Mr. Young? Some food? A stiff drink?"

  "I... Fuck, I don't know."

  "Right. Come and sit." Keeping hold of Daniel's hand, he tugged the man back into the kitchen and sat him down. There were some pre-made sandwiches in the fridge and he took one out and put it down in front of Daniel along with a big glass of milk.

  He figured something alcoholic on top of whatever had Daniel all shaky was not necessarily a good idea. Once the man had eaten, they could both down a shot or two of something and see if they couldn't get Daniel into bed. On his own. Rafe repeated the words in his head. Daniel blinked at the sandwich, then drank the milk down, throat working like the man was parched. Of course, he'd just put on a huge show, sweating and dancing and working -- he probably was. Rafe grunted and filled the glass again and then another with water. He got a grunt, both glasses drained. "Bathroom?"

  "Take a right out of here and it's the first door on the right." He refilled the milk and the water, and kept an ear out, making sure Daniel didn't take off again.

  The water started running, kept running. And running. And running. Frowning, he headed over to the bathroom and knocked.

  There wasn't an answer, but when he tried the door, the knob turned for him and he pushed it open. "Daniel? You okay in here, man?"

  The costume was folded in a neat pile, Daniel sitting, eyes closed under the shower spray. He averted his eyes, but not before getting a look at Daniel through the shower door and mist. "You um..." he cleared this throat. “You okay in there, man?"

  "Yeah. Just resting."

  "Yeah, okay. Sorry, didn't mean to. Yeah." Stare. Get turned on. Be a rude
barging in asshole. Any of those would do.

  He closed the door and went back to the kitchen, at loose ends. The water turned off eventually, but Daniel didn't come out. And didn't come out. And didn't come out.

  Shit.

  He went back to the bathroom and knocked. "Come on, Mr. Young. Why don't you come out now?"

  He heard a vague murmur in answer, nothing else.

  Shit.

  "Unless I hear you say different, I'm coming in there." For all he knew the guy was lying on the floor, half unconscious.