Trusting the Bodyguard

by Kimberly Van Meter

  Archer rapped twice on the door and while he waited he scanned the yard, the house, everything within his range, watching for sudden movement, anything that might signal that Ortiz was on the run.

  Just as Archer went to knock again, the door opened and a small Mexican woman, probably no taller than Archer’s chest, appeared.

  Her welcoming smile disappeared when Archer and Jeremiah flashed their identification. “Hello, Mrs. Sandoval, we’re looking for your son, Ruben Ortiz. Is he here by any chance?” Jeremiah asked.

  “No,” she answered and tried to shut the door but Archer was faster than and slid his foot between the door and the jamb. She glared at him and then drew the door back and slammed it on his foot. Holy hell that hurt.

  Archer swore and gritted his teeth against the pain. “Not so fast, Granny,” he muttered and pushed the door open with one quick and hard motion that sent her stumbling back.

  “You can’t come in here without a warrant,” she screeched, fists balled and ready to take a swing at either of them by the look on her face.

  “I see where Ortiz gets his sunny disposition,” Archer remarked, moving past her in spite of her protests. “Where is he? Save us the time of ripping this cozy place apart and just tell us where that scum-sucking son of yours is hiding.”

  “Go to hell.”

  Archer chuckled. “Nice.”

  Jeremiah produced the warrant and waved it in front of her. “Here’s your warrant. And you’re under arrest for assaulting a federal agent. Hands behind your back, ma’am,” he said as she stared at him in disbelief.

  “My son will make you pay for this insult,” she declared even as Jeremiah pulled her birdlike appendages behind her back to handcuff.

  Archer looked at her dispassionately. “Yeah? I look forward to it. Now where is he?”

  Her mouth tightened and her eyes narrowed but she said nothing. Oh, so that’s how it is, Archer thought, looking to Jeremiah. “I’ll take the bedrooms. Did you bring your sledgehammer?”

  “It’s in the car.”

  “Don’t you dare,” she said, indignant at the thought of her home being trashed in such a way.

  Archer glanced at the orderly way of everything from the dust-free knickknacks to the pristine white carpet, and he grinned in a way that told her he’d enjoy every minute. “Oh, I dare,” he said easily. “And it’s perfectly legal. With reasonable doubt I can tear down every wall, climb into your attic and pull the guts out of your insulation to see what’s hiding in there because I believe you’re harboring a man wanted by the federal government on charges of rape, sodomy, felony assault and drug trafficking. And those are just the violent offenses. Our sister branch of the government, also known as the IRS, wants to conduct an audit of his business practices now that they know he operates under an alias as well as his legal name. Another thing, if you’re harboring a fugitive…that’s a crime, too. So, are you willing to go down for this piece of crap?”

  Apparently, she was. The old woman was buttoned up tighter than a drum. Fine. “Keep her here. I want her to see this,” he instructed Jeremiah before striding from the house to go get the sledgehammer. He returned moments later and hefted it in his hand. “Let’s start with the master bedroom. Better make sure there are no false walls,” he said with affected cheerfulness. In truth he was raging pissed-off, hating that Ortiz could get anyone to remain loyal out of choice. Sure, it was the woman who spawned him but still…if she could support him even after hearing what a monster he was, that put her down as equally bad in his book.

  Archer went into the first bedroom. It was made up for a guest but it looked as if no one had slept there in months. He went to the closet and jerked the doors open. He knocked on the walls. “Sounds hollow to me,” he declared loudly and then swung the sledgehammer, burying it in the plaster handle-deep. “Better give it another whack, just to be sure,” he called out, grinning when he heard the old woman start to cuss him out in Spanish. “Here we go,” he said, relishing the feel of the blunt tool smashing into the wall, imagining it was Ruben’s head as it took down the drywall in great chunks.

  He poked his head out. “Nothing there. I’ll check the master bedroom.”

  “You bastard!” she shrieked, eliciting a wider grin on Archer’s part. He glanced around the room and spied a series of porcelain figures on the dresser. They were obviously placed there with great care and prized since they were not in the living room where they might get jostled or touched by visitors. He picked up one indiscriminately and then let it slip from his fingers to smash into a thousand pieces on the hardwood floor. “Sorry about that,” he called out. “Hope it wasn’t valuable. But these things happen you know. I hope nothing else gets broken….”

  Expecting more shrieking, perhaps more colorful language thrown at him in a different language, but instead Jeremiah’s voice reached him.

  “Archer. We’ve got a situation.” His voice was relaxed but there was a note of urgency underlying the deceptive calm that quickly told Archer Ruben was probably in the house.

  “Yeah, be there in a minute,” he answered, gently setting the sledgehammer down and pulling his gun. He came around the corner, back against the wall and found Ruben with a gun to Jeremiah’s head.

  “The man’s quieter than the wind,” Jeremiah said by way of explanation, shrugging with his hands up. The old woman stood by her son, a triumphant gleam in her sharp eyes that made Archer want to break a few more knickknacks.

  “You’ve caused me so much trouble,” Ruben stated matter-of-factly but there was rage in his voice. “First my home and my woman…that I could’ve forgiven and let bygones be bygones but you’ve taken things too far, federales, coming here and terrorizing my mama. One might question your upbringing.”

  Archer shrugged. “The same could be said for you.”

  “My boy is a good man,” the woman snapped and Ortiz silenced her with a look. She quieted under her son’s authority and Archer realized the cultural differences at work. Ortiz was the man of the house. She’d do whatever he required of her, even if that meant going down protecting him. Archer wanted to shake some sense into the old woman but by the looks of it, it was too late for her. She likely would’ve let him tear her house asunder to protect her son. But Ortiz on the other hand didn’t like his personal possessions messed with, and it had probably driven him crazy to know Archer was destroying everything with gleeful abandon.

  A twisted smile formed on his mouth. It was small retribution but he’d take anything he could get at this moment.

  “What’s so funny?” Ortiz demanded. He pressed the gun harder against Jeremiah’s temple. “I’m about to blow your friend’s brains out and you think this is funny?” he said, his voice dropping dangerously. His gaze never left Archer’s as he directed his mother to get some trash bags. “You’ve already made a big enough mess,” he said in explanation.

  “Oh, I see. You’re planning to kill us, bury our bodies and then go on your merry way? Business as usual I suspect by looking at your track record,” Archer surmised, deadly calm in spite of the circumstances. This wasn’t the first time he’d had a gun in his face or his partner’s. He was getting tired of it, though. “Good plan. The only problem? We’ve got about fifty agents on their way right now. You think we’d come here without backup? You’re not only insane but stupid.”

  “Without a body they’ve got nothing on me,” Ruben sneered. “I know how the law works, my friend.”

  “Oh, I know you do. You’ve spent your life evading it with every loophole available to you. Except this time there are no loopholes for you to squeeze through. We’ve got you, Ortiz. We’ve got you so good, the only deal your lawyer is going to be able to push is life in prison without possibility of parole over the death penalty.”

  Ruben looked uncertain and Jeremiah must’ve felt the slightest change in the pressure against his temple for he reacted with lightning speed, throwing his elbow straight into Ortiz’s gut and then connecting with the man’s nos
e as he fell forward gasping for air. The gun went flying and the shrewish old woman ran forward with claws outstretched in spite of her manacled hands. Archer simply put his foot in her path, sending her sprawling.

  “My hip,” she howled, rolling on the floor, and Archer stepped over her to where Ortiz lay curled on the floor, moaning about police brutality and a lawsuit. “You broke my hip, you bastard!”

  Archer ignored the hag’s screeching and stared down at Ortiz. Then he slowly lifted the man from his position on the floor to his feet while Jeremiah retrieved Ortiz’s gun.

  Ortiz grinned, blood staining his teeth as it leaked from his broken nose. “Do your worst, federales,” he said. “I own this town. I’ll walk and every day you’ll have to look over your shoulder because I’ll be there, watching and waiting, to have my revenge. No one takes what is mine.”

  Jeremiah took the old lady to put her in the back of the car and gave Archer a knowing look. “Just put him in cuffs. We’ll deal with the rest later,” he said and walked to the car with the old woman, who was limping and crying about her hip.

  “That’s right, lawman, cuff me so we can get this over with,” Ortiz taunted as Archer jerked him around to clamp the cuffs on his wrists. He thought of Marissa and how she already feared that this man would do exactly that—stalk her and the baby until he got what he wanted—and then pictured Marissa’s slack body as she’d hung like an animal on a hook in that bedroom, and then her friend Layla and how Ortiz had brutalized her before snuffing out her life. He realized the justice system might just let him go and he couldn’t take that chance. He slowly let Ruben’s hands go.

  “What are you doing?” the man demanded, turning to stare at Archer. “Cuff me. Follow your procedure like a good little federale. I want to get this over with. I have plans for this evening to visit a friend in the hospital.”

  It was the leer that pushed him over the edge. Archer grinned like a madman. “Run, you piece of shit,” he said softly.

  Ruben blinked. “What?”

  “You heard me. I said run.”

  “No.” He shook his head, putting his hands out. “I want to be cuffed.”

  “No? What happened to the big man? The man who likes to terrorize women?” Archer mocked.

  Real fear started to cloud the man’s stare as he realized what Archer was doing and he shook his head vehemently. “Cuff me!” he fairly shrieked and Archer’s grin widened. “You can’t do this. I have rights! I’m an unarmed man!”

  “How I see it, you rushed me for my gun and in the struggle my gun went off and you were mortally wounded.” Archer relished the man’s fear. Ruben started to look nervously for help but Archer knew Jeremiah would wait. They both knew the score and how it had to end. He gestured to Ruben with his gun and said, “C’mon on, now, make it look good. I’ll even let you get in a good hit before I blow your sorry ass to kingdom come you son of a bitch.”

  “You can’t do this,” he whimpered, his eyes flitting back and forth and spit gathering at the corners of his lips. “You’re a cop…you’ll go to prison for this.”

  “Some things are worth it,” Archer said with a shrug, and then he narrowed his stare and growled. “Now, I said run.”

  JEREMIAH HEARD THE SHOT and he closed his eyes briefly. The woman in the back of the car stopped moaning and turned scared eyes to the house. When Archer emerged alone and gestured to him, she started to wail.

  He jogged back to the house and followed Archer to the dead body of Ruben Ortiz. “What happened?” he asked, although he already knew.

  “He went for my gun. There was a struggle. He died,” Archer said flatly.

  “God, the paperwork.” Jeremiah sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He radioed for the ambulance then looked at Archer, who didn’t seem the least bit remorseful for shooting a man in cold blood. He knew not every case came together neat and tidy, and loose ends got people killed. Losing Ruben Ortiz was not a tragedy but losing Archer would be. He looked at his friend and hoped Archer saw understanding in his eyes for what would come next would not be easy but Jeremiah would stand by him.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  MARISSA WAS RELEASED from the hospital and took a cab to her apartment. Muscles stiff from so much inactivity and her injuries, she moved slowly up the stairs to a life that seemed unreal. She opened the door to chaos, too numb to care that her home was trashed, and simply closed the door and waded through the wreckage to her bedroom.

  There it was just as bad but she pushed away the debris of broken things and clothes strewn about and climbed into the familiar feel of her queen-size bed. Crawling under the comforter, she wanted to stay there until she died, unable to think beyond the moment, unable to see past the trauma she’d lived through.

  Several hours later she awoke and realized she couldn’t let herself slide into nothingness. Rising stiffly, she left the bedroom and started to clean as best she could. Jenna was with a foster family for the time being but that had to change as soon as possible. She didn’t know how she would make that happen but she’d find a way. She still had her nest egg, perhaps they would move far away. Perhaps. She felt worn down by the situation but just as she nearly succumbed to the despair creeping along the edges, looking for an opening in her mental wall, she heard a short knock at the door. Fear made her freeze until Archer’s voice on the other side made her realize it was okay.

  She unlatched the door and opened it, gasping when she saw Jenna in his arms. The baby went instantly to her and she cried in pain and joy as the toddler gave her sweet, sloppy kisses all over her face.

  “May I come in?” he asked, a short smile at the reunion. She nodded and stepped aside, careful to avoid the shattered mess of her end table she’d yet to wrestle into a trash bag. He eyed the mess and frowned. “You can’t live here.”

  “It’s my home,” she said in answer, too overjoyed with having Jenna safe and in her arms to fight with him on the subject. She sat on the sofa raining kisses on Jenna’s crown and finally had the guts to look at Archer. He appeared as haggard and worn as she, something was eating at his soul, and she suspected it had everything to do with the news he had come to share. She quieted, fear in her heart making her stomach clench. “Is she going back to him?” she asked.

  At that he shook his head and relief was sudden and sharp. “Thank God,” she breathed. “Is he going to prison for what he did to me and Layla?”

  He shook his head again, resulting in confusion. “I don’t understand,” she said, frowning. “What’s going on?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Dead?”

  He nodded, and suddenly she knew. “You killed him.”

  “There was a struggle. He went for my gun. I shot him in self-defense,” he answered, almost by rote, and Marissa knew by the hard look in Archer’s eyes that he was lying. She looked away, not wanting that knowledge even if it meant she and Jenna were safe and could move on with their lives. “You don’t have to worry about him coming after you or Jenna. With a recommendation from our office, the courts agreed that the best place for Jenna was with you. You’re free to return to your life as it was before.”

  She slanted a look at him. Her life would never be the same. Ever. She felt broken inside. Still, she nodded numbly.

  Silence filled the gap between them and Marissa knew she should thank him for all he’d done for her. It wasn’t that gratitude wasn’t in her heart because it was, but so much remained between them that she didn’t trust herself to open her mouth and just say “thank you.”

  There was a part of her that wanted to throw herself into his arms and beg him to take her away from the ghosts of her recent past but a stronger part of herself remained tightly contained, questioning why he hadn’t saved her when it mattered the most and how he could’ve killed a man in cold blood. She expected that from Ruben but not from Archer, whom she considered to be the best of men.

  And so she simply nodded and tightened her hold on Jenna for fear of breaking down in front of
him.

  “Marissa—” His expression was as choked as his voice and she shied away from the pain there. “I—”

  “Please don’t,” she whispered. “I can’t.”

  He nodded, understanding but not really because if he could catch a glimpse of the turmoil in her heart, ripping her apart, he’d know that she needed his strength even if she tried to refuse. But she read guilt in his body language and knew he wouldn’t push her.

  He came toward her and she thought he might kiss her goodbye and actually swayed in his direction but his affection was for Jenna. He caressed her head and one callused finger played with an errant curl. “Take care, kid. I expect great things from you. If you’re anything like your aunt, you’ll be fine.”

  He locked eyes with her and her throat constricted as tears welled. She thanked him with her heart and watched him walk out of her life. Again. Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind from memory as she’d said to a sad fourteen-year-old girl, “Some things are not meant to be, mija, no matter how hard we wish them to.”

  But Mama, I wish so terribly much that the wishing is tearing me in two.

  Her mother’s voice was silent. As were Marissa’s tears.

  TODAY ARCHER WAS TURNING in his badge and gun. He expected to feel something other than the emptiness in his chest but there was nothing. Perhaps that was a blessing.

  The General—they called him that because much like each member of his special team, his background was rooted in the military and the nickname suited him well—sat behind a wide, cherrywood desk, his round, jowled face implacable while Jeremiah stood near the federal law library lining the wall. Both men looked unhappy as hell to be there.

  “Sit down,” the General barked and Archer slid into a seat opposite the man who’d been his boss for the past ten years. The man who’d hand-plucked him out of the marines for this very special branch of the FBI. “This is bullshit,” he declared, shooting a look at Jeremiah who simply lifted his shoulders in a flip shrug as if to say, You try talking sense into the man. I’m done.