Bodyguard. Shirlee McCoy
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it, because she didn’t know when to quit. Another thing Brent had said to her.
He’d been right.
She never quit.
Not even when the odds were stacked against her. Hopefully, this time, it wouldn’t get her killed.
She crawled closer to the edge of the campsite, dropping her pack and grabbing a fist-sized rock from the mud. Reginald had taught her to play ball when they were kids. He’d shown her how to throw a mean right hook, to take a man down with a well-placed kick. She’d loved him as much as she’d loved Violetta, and she’d soaked up everything he’d had to offer. Until she’d realized that the road he’d chosen was one she had no intention of traveling. Then she’d distanced herself from her brother and, to a lesser extent, Violetta. That had been eight years ago. Even after all that time and all the years away from Reginald’s coaching, she still knew how to fight.
She stopped at the edge of the clearing, her heart pounding as she waited. The campsite had gone silent. No gunfire. No barking dog. Sirens were blaring in the distance, the sound muted by the thick foliage.
Somewhere nearby, a branch snapped, the sound breaking the eerie quiet. King barked again, and someone crashed through the brush just steps from where Esme lay.
She levered up, would have lobbed the rock at the fleeing man, but King was there, a shadowy blur, so close she could feel his fur as he raced past.
Surprised, she jerked back, her knees slipping in the layer of wet earth, her elbows sliding out from under her. She would have face-planted, but someone grabbed the back of her shirt, yanking her up.
“Hey!” She turned, the rock still in her hand.
“I told you to stay where you were,” Ian growled.
“I was trying to help.”
“Since when is getting in the way helping?” he retorted, King’s wild barking nearly covering his words.
Esme didn’t think he expected a response, and she didn’t bother giving one. He was already moving again, sprinting toward his dog.
She followed, keeping a few steps behind him. Despite his sarcastic comment, she had no intention of getting in the way. The more gunmen he could take out, the safer they’d be. Once they were safe, she could go back to her plan. Get out of the Everglades and out of Florida.
Alone.
“Federal agent! Freeze!” Ian shouted, and she froze before she realized he hadn’t shouted the command at her.
“Call off your dog!” a man replied, his voice tinged with a hint of panic.
“You want me to call off the dog, you freeze.”
“This is all a mistake!” the man whined. “I was out here hunting gators and—”
“One command, and his teeth will go straight to the bone,” Ian cut in.
The man must have stopped moving, because Ian stepped forward, gun trained toward something Esme couldn’t see.
“Keep your hands where I can see them,” he commanded, King still growling beside him.
“And you,” he continued, and even though he hadn’t turned to look at her, Esme was certain he was talking to her. “Stay where you are. The guy ditched his gun back at the campsite, but that doesn’t mean he’s not armed.”
“I ditched my gun because your crazy dog was trying to kill me.”
“You can explain it all to the judge.”
“What judge? I was hunting gators. I can’t help it if I got in the middle of your shoot-out.”
“Like I said, you can explain it all to the judge. I’m sure he’ll be really interested in your version. He’ll also be interested in what your friend has to say. If he survives.”
“I didn’t come with a friend. Never seen either of those men before in my life.”
Ian didn’t respond.
Esme could hear the men walking toward her, their feet slapping against wet grass and soggy leaves. They reached her seconds later, Ian taller and broader than the man he’d apprehended. He looked fit and strong. The perfect bodyguard. If she were looking for one. She wasn’t. What she was looking for was some peace. She wouldn’t get that until her uncle was apprehended and he and her brother were convicted of their crimes.
“What now?” she asked, trying to think ahead, to figure out the best way to separate herself from the situation. Once she knew his plans, it would be easier to make hers.
“We’re heading back to the camp. I’ve got one man down and cuffed there. The other ran off.”
“He could return,” she pointed out.
“Local law enforcement is close. Hopefully, one of them will pick him up.”
“I stopped hoping for safety right around the time my uncle tried to murder me,” she muttered.
He eyed her through the evening gloom, his expression unreadable. For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t respond. When he did, his tone was gruff. “I hope you’re not living in the delusion that your uncle is the one responsible for all of this.”
“Who else would it be?”
“Your uncle might have tracked you to Florida, but your brother is calling the shots from prison.”
“Maybe.” Probably.
She didn’t want to admit that.
Not even to herself.
She and her uncle had never been close. She could almost pretend they weren’t family.
She and Reginald, though...
They were siblings. Sure, he was much older, but they’d been raised by the same parents with the same values.
Somehow they’d taken completely different paths, found value in completely different things.
She’d watched him kill a man.
She would never forget that. She would testify against him.
But this was by far the most difficult thing she’d ever done.
It was the right thing, but that didn’t make her feel good about it. It sure didn’t make her safe. Her family would do anything to keep her from testifying. She still couldn’t wrap her mind around that.
The proof was here, though—the cuffed man walking beside a federal agent who had come to track her down. Both of them wanted Esme for different purposes. One wanted her dead. The other wanted her to stay alive. At least until her brother’s trial.
The sirens had grown louder, and she could see flashing lights through the mangroves. Help had arrived. It didn’t seem like Ian needed it. He motioned for his prisoner to sit on the raised sleeping platform.
“Guard,” he commanded, and King snapped to attention, his eyes trained on the cuffed man.
“He’s guarding you, too,” Ian said, meeting Esme’s eyes.
“It’s not like I have anywhere to go,” she responded. She could see the canoe, a dozen yards out, listing heavily to the right. Enough bullets had been fired to cause it to sink. If she’d been in it, she’d be dead. She shivered, suddenly chilled despite the warmth and humidity.
“There are plenty of places to go. You’ve proved that several times.” He turned and walked away, moving across the clearing and crouching next to a man who lay near the water.
She thought he was checking the guy’s pulse and rendering first aid, but it was hard to see through the deepening gloom. This would have been her third night out in the Glades. She should be used to how quickly darkness descended After so many months running from people who wanted her dead, she should also be used to skin-crawling,