Читать книгу Bodyguard Daddy - Lisa Childs - Страница 14

Chapter 4

“Where the hell are they?” Garek asked the question already echoing inside Logan Payne’s head as he stared down at the empty caskets.

Dirt slipped from beneath his feet as he stood on the mounds built up around those open and empty caskets. The graves were in a remote area of the River City Peaceful Acres cemetery—far from the street. So nobody had heard or seen anything—until the caretaker had stumbled across those piles of dirt. At least that was what the investigating police officer had shared with Logan.

The young officer was talking to Candace now, his head bobbing as he answered her questions. The kid didn’t know any more than he’d already told them, though. So Candace left him quickly to return to her husband’s side. Logan suspected there was only one man who could answer their questions.

Standing on another mound next to him, Garek clicked off his cell phone and shoved it into his pocket; his hand was shaking. Candace took it in hers. “Milek’s phone keeps going to voice mail.”

Logan also had his phone to his ear, listening to his half brother’s recorded voice. Special Agent Nicholas Rus. I am not available at the moment. Leave me a message, and I will return your call.

“Bullshit,” he cursed as he jerked the phone away. Rus hadn’t returned the message he’d already left him. “Nick’s is going straight to voice mail, too.”

Garek repeated, “Where the hell are they?”

With her free hand, Candace gestured toward the empty caskets and suggested, “A better question might be where the hell are they?”

The inside of both caskets was pristine. There had been no bodies decaying within them for a year. Logan doubted there’d ever been a body in either.

“Nick knows,” he said, and anger surged through him. He’d just begun to forge a relationship with the half brother who’d turned his family upside down when he’d shown up in River City. But it wasn’t Nick’s fault that their father had had an affair with Nick’s mother.

It was Nick’s fault for letting Stacy and Milek suffer, thinking that Amber Talsma and her son had died in a horrific crash.

“The son of a bitch must have staged the whole accident,” Garek said, his anger and disgust apparent. “How could he put everyone through that?”

Candace squeezed her husband’s hand, offering her love and reassurance. “He must have had his reasons.”

The comment gave Logan comfort, as well. No matter what Nick had done since he’d come to town, he’d had a reason for every action.

“What are you thinking?” Logan asked. “Witness protection?”

“She must have seen something,” Candace replied. “Maybe she witnessed her boss’s murder.”

DA Gregory Schievink had been gunned down outside his house. But if the rumors were true about the deceased DA and his assistant, Amber could have been with him—especially since his wife had been out of town at the time.

“But she’s been gone a year,” Garek said. His voice hoarse with anger, he added, “Milek has mourned her for a whole freaking year. Until...”

Nick must have told him that she was alive. He had probably revealed the secret while Milek had been helping the special agent keep Garek and Candace alive. Since then, everyone had noticed the younger Kozminski brother had been doing better.

“Some cases take a year or more to go to trial,” Logan said. Even after he’d left the River City PD to start the Payne Protection Agency, he’d had to testify in cases he’d investigated while he’d been a detective.

“What case?” Garek asked. “There have been no arrests in the DA’s murder. If Amber witnessed the shooting and was alive, there would have been an arrest.”

While Garek hadn’t always been on the right side of the law, he understood how it worked.

“That’s true,” Logan acknowledged. “There must be some other reason...”

But what? Why the hell would an FBI agent have helped the assistant DA fake her death and that of her son?

Logan punched in Nick’s number on his cell again. But just like before, it went straight to his voice mail.

Where the hell are they?

* * *

He had her son. He had taken him away before she could reach for him—before she could rescue him. Then the front passenger’s door opened and big hands reached inside for her.

Instinct had her shrinking back against the crumpled driver’s door. But then stronger instincts kicked in—of a mother protecting her child. And she struggled from beneath the steering wheel.

“Wait,” a deep voice advised. “Don’t move. You might be injured.”

She recognized the voice and the hands. Those same hands had lifted her son from the backseat. Those hands had once touched her, caressed her...

Held her.

“Where’s Michael?” she asked. “Where’d you put him?”

“He’s out here,” Milek replied, even as he leaned inside the van. “He’s safe. For the moment...” His silver eyes darkened to gray—with concern, with fear. He was worried that whoever had been shooting at them might return. “We need to get you out—if you’re not hurt, if you can move.”

She was moving. But as she moved the van rocked, threatening to roll over again. Her breath caught, trapped in her lungs, as fear overwhelmed her. Then those hands slipped beneath her arms and easily lifted her, as if she weighed no more than their child.

Once she cleared the passenger’s door, he didn’t put her down, though. He held her, his arms tightly clasping her against his madly pounding heart.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Are you?” she asked. “I heard the gunshots.” So many gunshots...

She shuddered at the memory. At least there had been no sound the night those bullets had been fired into her home. At first she hadn’t understood why the windows had shattered, why the pictures had fallen off the walls. She’d figured it might have been an earthquake; there had been a couple of small ones in the area around that time. But then she’d heard the car drive away, tires squealing, and when she’d stepped outside, she’d seen the shells on the ground.

“We’re fine,” Milek said. And he must have accepted that she was, too, because he set her on her feet. She hadn’t realized how badly her legs were shaking until they nearly buckled beneath her.

He caught her, wrapping his arm around her to hold her up. His other hand touched her face, his fingers skimming from her temple over her cheek. Just as it always had, her skin tingled from his touch. “You’re bleeding.”

He turned away from her and spoke to someone else. “Rus, we better take her to the emergency room.”

Special Agent Nicholas Rus stepped forward, her son in one arm while the other was against his side, his gun grasped tightly in his hand.

Fear slammed her heart against her ribs. But Michael was blissfully unafraid. Because he recognized the man who had helped them hide, he trusted him.

Amber couldn’t do that anymore. She pulled away from Milek and reached for her son. “Give him to me,” she said, her tone sharp. “Let go of my son!”

Michael’s silvery-gray eyes widened with shock. He looked so much like his father. Did he see it? Did he see how much he looked like the man who’d originally lifted him from the van? Why had Milek handed him over to the FBI agent?

To help her from the van? Or because he still didn’t want their son?

But before she could take the boy from Rus’s arms, Milek reached for him. He easily clasped their son against his chest. “He’s fine,” he assured her.

Michael didn’t look fine, though. His little brow was furrowed as he stared up at his father. Maybe he saw it now—the similarities between them. “You look like somebody,” Michael said and confirmed her suspicion.

“Aunt Stacy,” Amber quickly answered. “Milek is Aunt Stacy’s brother.”

Their little boy’s eyes narrowed as he continued to study his father’s handsome face. Was it possible Milek had gotten even better looking the past year? His already chiseled features were even more defined—his cheekbones sharper, his jaw squarer—harder. But his lips looked soft, kissable...

She had kissed them so many times, but that had been years ago. Would he kiss the same now? Would his kiss—his touch—affect her the way it once had?

Maybe she’d hit her head when the van had rolled. Why else would she be having such inane thoughts? Such desires? She didn’t want Milek Kozminski anymore.

She wanted only her son.

“Does that make you my uncle?” her little boy asked.

Milek coughed. “No. I’m not your uncle. I’m your—”

Whatever he’d been about to say was lost—swallowed by the sound of sirens. Had he been about to admit he was their son’s father?

“We need to get out of here,” Rus said. “Now!”

Milek pointed toward her forehead. “She needs to go to the hospital,” he said, “and have someone check her out and make sure she doesn’t have a concussion. And she’s going to need stitches.”

She lifted her trembling fingers to her head. The blood was just trickling now. “No...”

“Mommy,” Michael exclaimed, his bottom lip beginning to quiver. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine,” Amber assured her son and his father. Despite her ridiculous thoughts about Milek, she didn’t think she had a concussion. She had never lost consciousness, and she had no pain. “I didn’t hit my head. It’s just a scratch.” Which could have been caused by broken glass or crumpled metal or maybe even one of those flying bullets...

“We need to get out of here,” Rus said, “before anyone else sees you and knows you’re alive.”

Amber pointed toward the wreckage that had once been her minivan. “Obviously someone already knows.”

And didn’t want her to stay alive. Rus hadn’t put away his gun yet; it was still clasped tightly in his hand. For protection? Or as a threat?

Instead of being intimidated, she was angry. Her life, and more important her son’s, had already been threatened. She narrowed her eyes and glared at Agent Rus. “How do they know? Who did you tell?”

“Me,” Milek said. “He told me.”

Had telling Milek put her and Michael in danger?

* * *

Her breath feathered across his ear as Amber leaned close to him and whispered, “He could have told someone else.”

Despite the warmth of her breath, he shivered slightly. It was cold outside—where they’d gone onto the hotel balcony to talk. Through the partially open sliding door, they could see their son—sleeping in one of the twin beds in the hotel. He’d seen her suspicion of the FBI agent. If Rus hadn’t left the room, she probably wouldn’t have left their son’s side. Milek hadn’t wanted to leave it, either. And they’d left the door open, so they could hear if he cried out or if someone tried to come through the door to the hall.

“He didn’t need to tell anyone else.”

“But he must’ve,” she insisted. “For the whole past year, nobody bothered Michael and me...until those photos showed up today.”

She looked at him then—with that same narrow-eyed stare she’d given Rus—as though she was interrogating him on a witness stand. She must have missed that—the cross-examination; she wouldn’t have had much chance of doing it over the past year.

“I have no reason to want you dead,” he said. And every reason to want her alive.

She kept that stare on him, unblinking. She looked so different—with the dark hair and contacts. But yet she was so familiar, too. “You haven’t asked me why...”

“Rus told me,” he said, “about the shooting.” About her and their son nearly being killed in their own home.

“You haven’t asked me why I didn’t go to you after the shooting happened.”

He shook his head. “I didn’t need to ask you why. I knew...” He had already let her down.

But she told him anyway. “I didn’t think you’d care...”

He flinched. But she wasn’t trying to hurt him. She was only stating what he’d made her believe. That he didn’t care about her or their son.

“So why did you come here with Agent Rus?” she asked.

They were just on the outskirts of the little town where Nick Rus had helped her hide. Rus had gone back into town to talk to the authorities, who were no doubt trying to figure out just what the hell had happened on her block. A traffic accident or a drive-by shooting.

Both.

Things like that happened all the time in River City. He suspected that wasn’t the case in this scenic little town. Why had it happened here? Why did someone want Amber dead?

“He told me you and Michael were alive.”

“So?” she asked. “You didn’t want to see me all the years before I died. Why did you want to see me now?”

He wanted to tell her how her death had affected him—how it had devastated him. How he’d realized when he’d lost her and their son that he had lost his reason for living. But after how he’d treated her, how he’d rejected her and Michael, he had no right to those feelings.

He peered through the slider, making certain their son slept soundly, so he wouldn’t overhear their conversation—even with the door only partially open. He didn’t want to traumatize him any more than that afternoon probably had. “Someone dug up your graves.”

She shuddered.

“He opened the caskets,” he said.

She expelled a shaky breath. “He knows they’re empty, then.”

“I suspect he already knew,” he said. “He just had to confirm.” And once the hired killer had confirmed it, he’d come after her—after them.

She uttered a very unladylike curse.

Milek drew out his cell phone and held up the screen showing the call log. “He’s not the only one who knows.” He hadn’t had to play his messages to confirm that. He knew his family well.

Ever since Amber’s accident a year ago, they’d been watching him closely. They had noticed the difference in him after Rus had shared the truth with him. Garek had made his suspicions clear that he thought Milek was working for the FBI agent. With his new wife’s help, he would have kept digging. But it wasn’t just Garek and Candace who’d been calling him. The entire Payne family had called.

“They all know...”

She let out a soft gasp. “Stacy?”

He glanced at the call log again and nodded. She’d called too many times to just be checking on him. She knew.

“She’s going to hate me.”

“She’s going to be happy you’re alive.”

“For how long?” Amber asked. “The shooter knows I’m alive. And he wants me dead.”

“I’m not going to let that happen,” Milek assured her.

She shook her head. “You won’t be able to stop him.”

“I stopped him today.” He wasn’t sure if it had been his shots or Rus’s that had come close enough to either injure or scare off the killer.

“You can’t be with me every minute,” she said. “I need to wake up Michael and get out of here.” She reached for the handle of the slider.

He covered her hand with his and stopped her from opening the door. Her skin was cold and silky to his touch. He tightened his grasp. “You can’t hide.”

He couldn’t lose them again.

“I can,” she said. “I just won’t make the mistake of trusting Agent Rus again.”

“Rus didn’t betray you,” he said. “If someone hadn’t dug up your graves, I’m not sure he would have ever told me where you were.”

“Then why did he tell you that Michael and I were alive?”

Because he had been suffering. But he doubted she would believe him. Since she was already having trouble trusting, he wasn’t going to push his luck. Not when he had another proposal to make.

“It doesn’t matter why,” Milek said. “But now that he told me, now that I know you’re both alive and in danger, I intend to keep you and Michael safe.”

She stared up at him and asked, “And how do you intend to do that?”

“By bringing you home.”

She shuddered. “To River City?”

“To my place,” he clarified. “I want you and Michael to move in with me.” Of course, doing that might actually put her in more danger—from him.

* * *

He hunched down in the driver’s seat and stared up at the hotel room where, moments ago, two people had stood on the balcony.

They hadn’t seen him following them from the crime scene. But then, he was the Ghost. Nobody ever saw him—until it was too late. Until today...

Frank lifted his fingers to his forehead and flinched. A bullet had grazed him. He hadn’t had a call that close in a long while. It had shaken him.

He didn’t want to actually become a ghost. But he had to make some more. He glanced down at the screen of his phone where a news broadcast played. It was out now.

Their graves found empty, Amber Talsma was believed to have faked the deaths of herself and her young son. There was speculation about all the reasons why.

Only Frank knew the truth—the whole truth. He was a professional, though, so nobody else would ever know. And because he was a professional it was time he finished the job. He could have tried when they’d been on the balcony, but he hadn’t had a clear shot. So he would wait. He was a patient man.

But he didn’t have to wait long before his targets walked out. The man had the boy clasped in one arm and his other arm wrapped protectively around the woman. But he wasn’t actually offering them much protection. He wouldn’t be able to draw his weapon this time. He wouldn’t be able to return fire when Frank started shooting.