Eddie Dever stood tall and broadened his already wide chest as he walked one step in front of his pop star client, Courtney, scanning the crowd for any threatening snarls, clenched fists, intense stares, reddening faces, or a wide stance conveying dominance. Add in plain old intuition—instincts he’d developed over the years dating back to his middle school days—and he was damn solid at his job. Amelia Roe, his partner, was bringing up the rear.
“Lookin’ good, Roe.” His self-engineered earcomms they both wore would pick up his voice even through the crowd’s shrilling.
“Same here.” Amelia’s low tone held authority; she no doubt was in constant scan of their surroundings.
Musicians sucked to guard, but this protection gig was pretty chill. Not that he’d be caught dead admitting that. He’d ward off a few more tenacious young girls who wanted to press forward for selfies and autographs, and in fifteen minutes, his contract would officially end. He was going to spend the night buried in something soft: his pillow.
“I got eyes on activity,” one of the other guards piped up. “Possible weapon.”
“Where?” He glanced back to the guy on his left, who stood toward the back of the crowd, his heartbeat increasing.
“To my eight.” The husky fella moved with purpose for a couple steps then pulled back. “False alarm.”
Eddie resumed monitoring the crowd in front of him, a woman too old to be a tween fangirling and too young to be the mother of said tween was smiling at him. And flashing some seriously sultry brown eyes. Hard. Well, hello there. Maybe a pillow wouldn’t be the only soft thing in his bed tonight. Wait, was that Donna Martin who he always wanted to ask out in high school? Wow, she really looked good with her hair red. But damned if he ever thought she was the biker jacket kind of gal. No, whoops, that profile wasn’t quite right. Not Donna.
The three guards made a path through the crowd, and he stepped to the side of the protruding steps that led to the tour bus their client called home, keeping one eye on the persistent redhead who was totally checking him out.
“Get her into the bus, and I’ll cover you.” He stood, legs squared with his shoulders, in the all-black suit and shirt he’d been required to wear for this assignment.
He may as well add a pair of black sunglasses and complete the cliché. His jeans and polo shirts were calling his name. He much preferred the jobs where he could be in the background, securing the client and blending in without a suit screaming that he was a bodyguard. It was well into the night, but the parking lot in the back of the arena was lit up like noon. He slowly moved his gaze over the crowd again, keeping his hands clasped him front of him, making sure to land his gaze on the petite woman in skinny jeans who was still watching him and had managed to inch up in the crowd. That settled that; in ten minutes, he was going to say hello. He shot her his best smile, the one he knew the ladies liked, that showed his pearly whites but wasn’t so big as to be arrogant.
“Can I get an autograph?” A lanky kid, probably a little too old to be pining after a teen pop star, shoved a paper and pen toward Amelia’s back. Courtney was on the second step, but she turned around, waving at the crowd and shouting her thanks to her fans.
“No more autographs at this time.” Eddie moved his arm between Amelia and the wide-eyed kid wearing a shirt of Courtney’s face enlarged to the point of being nearly pixelated.
“It’ll only take a minute.”
He almost smiled at the voice crack, but that would break the poor kid’s fragile, infatuated heart even further.
“Sorry.” Eddie swept his hand out toward the kid to back him off, nodding to the other guards to escort the overzealous fan away.
Then he found Ms. Redhead’s gaze again, because, dammit, he hadn’t met someone in a while.
“Just one!” the kid screamed, pulling Eddie out of his trance, wild eyes landing on him.
The crazy removed a plastic-looking gun from his deep front pocket.
Not today, little man-boy.
Courtney’s smile faded right as Amelia shoved her inside the bus, Glock in hand and crouching in the doorway to the bus.
In an instant, without any particular thought, Eddie lunged at the kid, tackling him to the ground, but before he made bodily contact, a shot rang out and reverberated off the light pylons, loads of tour vehicles, and concrete. He banged the kid’s wrist to the ground, and the 3-D printed gun skidded away from them on the cement. The crowd hysteria faded, and all he could hear was the ringing of the gun firing and his heart pumping. Thud. He used his elbow to strike the shooter’s jaw. Thud. The cheekbone gave way. Thud. The kid was no longer squirming under him to get away.
The bodyguards muscled him aside and used a zip tie to cuff the little bastard.
Eddie made it to his feet, running his hands down his shirt and slick pants as he hustled toward the entrance of the bus. Were Amelia and Courtney okay? He could just see the paperwork Winter was going to make him fill out on this little screw up.
He heard screaming the closer he got. His gut twisted, and nausea crept up his throat. Screaming wasn’t good. He leapt the stairs and froze at the site of blood and Amelia lying on the entrance floor. Courtney was holding her, and blood was everywhere—in Courtney’s hair and smeared across her neck and arms—and it all stemmed from Amelia’s stomach.
“Officer down!” Eddie shouted over his shoulder as he fell to his knees and took over applying pressure to the left side of Amelia’s abdomen. So much blood everywhere, and it wouldn’t stop. “We need the paramedics in here,” he ordered with a shout, catching the eye of a guard, who nodded and took off running.
“Is she ...?” Courtney’s shaky words trailed off, her terrified gaze moving between him and Amelia.
“Are you hurt?” Blood seeped through his fingers even though he was pushing so hard he felt her ribs. It took all of his strength to keep his eyes on his client. He knew his partner’s condition. Amelia was dying.
Courtney shook her head, mascara streaked down her face, and her entire body shook to the frenzy reflected in her eyes.
A man and woman in blue uniforms carrying a stretcher and medical bag bounded into the bus, and knelt on the floor beside him.
“Gunshot to the abdomen,” was all he could say as they nudged him out of the way.
Gunshot to the abdomen. The bastard’s bullet had gone in just under her bulletproof vest. Shit. Shit. Don’t die.
He paced a tight line, volleying his gaze between his red-stained hands and his friend on the floor as the paramedics worked frantically, removing the outer black shirt she wore, then the vest, putting white gauze on the entrance hole, and moving her to the stretcher.
Eddie jumped back to get out of their way. The bodyguards had managed to move the crowd out of the area. Not a hard task after a gun went off.
“You.” He pointed to another guard. “Stay with Courtney. She should be checked out.”
The paramedics made quick work to the ambulance, Eddie on their heels.
“I’m coming with.” He hopped in as a woman slammed the back doors shut.
Amelia lay inches away from him, still in the stark light of the ambulance, an oxygen mask covering her nose and mouth, and barely a spot on her that wasn’t soaked in bright red. Holy shit. This wasn’t how this night was supposed to end. Not how any night or day or minute was ever supposed to end.
How had this night gone so wrong?
By not thinking everyone was a threat, that’s how.
This was all his fault. This teammate, his friend, was fighting for her life right now because he hadn’t seen the signs, hadn’t been good at his job. Hadn’t been vigilant enough.
Everyone was a threat. No one was completely innocent. Bad things happened to good people. Fuck, all the clichés were right. It should’ve been him who’d taken the bullet. He hadn’t been quick enough to lunge, to protect Amelia.
He squeezed her hand as the sirens wailed and the rig started rolling.
“I’m so sorry. So, so sorry. Don’t die, Amelia,” he pleaded with his friend under his breath. You’re a Viking. Be a Viking and live.
A tear rolled down his cheek.
• • •
“Wait.” Hannah Malone sat forward in her black office chair, trying to calm her heartbeat now thudding in her ear. “Who’s dead?”
“Marty.” The caller let out a heavy breath.
“When?” She’d just spoken to her newest informant at Redburn, Inc. less than twelve hours ago. He’d been nervous, yeah, but not dead.
This is not happening. It was as if all of her plans, the preparations, were stacked to the ceiling and started to tumble down, burying her in quicksand. She pressed one palm firmly onto her desk and white-knuckled the receiver. There was more than one way to get what she wanted, and she was talking to him right now.
“I don’t know. That’s just what I heard when I got here. I need out. If they knew about Marty and he talked—” Her other mole’s anxiety was seeping through the phone, making her chest rise and fall quicker. He needed to keep his head on straight and not screw this up for her.
If he was correct, then she’d already lost her leverage and the reason she was in the office so early on a Thursday. She couldn’t lose another insider on the Warren Redburn case.
“I’ll take care of it.” She clicked on her Outlook and rapidly fired out e-mails to her boss and the district attorney who were in the very small circle that knew about her confidential task force—a team that was supposed to convene this morning for the first time to discuss strategy on taking down the Redburn organization or, more specifically, Warren Redburn. That should be a fun meeting now, considering they had squat. “Keep your phone close.”
The line went dead, and she tapped on her phone icon and the first couple letters of the Seattle Police Department captain and hit send. If Marty was dead, she hadn’t been notified, which meant his body hadn’t been found. Yet. Quite possibly it never would. People had a way of disappearing when it came to Warren Redburn. But she wasn’t giving up.
That morning’s turn of events were simply roadblocks, and she’d fix it. The question now was whether or not they were going to have enough to go on to gather evidence of Redburn’s corruption and less than legal dealings.
She couldn’t let him get away.
She wouldn’t.
Not this time.
She dialed Winter at Wyn Security. She knew exactly who she wanted assigned to her task force.
Warren Redburn would ruin another family over her dead body.