Be On The Lookout: Bodyguard

Every muscle that had been ready to spring to action hardened. Jonathan turned back to Kate. She wasn’t crying, but the way her beautiful dark eyes reached out to him let him know that she was close.

“Please, stay with me.”

It was in that moment that he knew there was no other place he wanted to be.

“It’ll be okay,” he said. “I promise.”

Sirens could be heard in the distance. The crying and yelling still sounded around them. For the first time since the car had nearly run them down, he realized the silver case hadn’t left Kate’s side.

She’d kept it with her through it all. What was in it?

And why was it worth killing for?

Be on the Lookout: Bodyguard

Tyler Anne Snell

TYLER ANNE SNELL genuinely loves all genres of the written word. However, she’s realized that she loves books filled with sexual tension and mysteries a little more than the rest. Her stories have a good dose of both. Tyler lives in Florida with her same-named husband and their mini “lions.” When she isn’t reading or writing, she’s playing video games and working on her blog, Almost There. To follow her shenanigans, visit www.tylerannesnell.com.

This book is for Virginia Spears.

You’re a beautiful, brilliant, hilarious sunflower. I hope we grow old together and can still make fun of all the silly things we did when we were younger. You’re one of the best humans I know and, for that, you deserve much more than a dedication in a book. However, that’s all I’m working with for now, so I hope this will do, you exotic, sparkling unicorn, you.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

He wouldn’t tell anyone this, but the fight almost ended much differently.

The punch that landed squarely against his jaw almost knocked him out. Pain, bright and bold, exploded along the bone as the blow connected. It made him stagger to the side, and for a moment he struggled with fighting the urge to cradle the pain and seek refuge.

Or pass out. Blackness fringed the edges of his vision.

But Jonathan Carmichael wasn’t that easy to take down.

He dropped low into a crouch and swung his leg around. His attacker wasn’t fast enough to move out of the way. His legs were swept out from under him and he hit the ground hard. The wheeze of someone who had lost their breath escaped from his lips.

Jonathan wasn’t where he needed to be physically—the punch really had done a number on him—but he knew the hired thug wasn’t just going to lie down and take it. Plus, he still had someone to protect.

Out of his periphery, Jonathan saw the door behind him and to the left was still closed. Fleetingly, he wondered if Martin actually locked the door like he had been told.

“You—gonna—gonna pay,” the thug started to wheeze out, but Jonathan didn’t have time for a speech. He turned on his heel and leveled the man with his own knockout punch. The muscle-clad baddie didn’t wage an internal war of whether or not he was going to slip into unconsciousness. Or, if he did, he didn’t win the battle.

His head clunked against the hardwood while the rest of his body relaxed.

“I’m gonna have a tall beer tonight,” Jonathan said, tenderly touching his chin. He winced. “That’s what I’m gonna do, all right.”

He nudged the guy’s foot with his work boot before feeling comfortable enough to walk back to the door his client was behind. Trying the doorknob, he cursed beneath his breath.

“Martin, I told you to lock this.”

His client, an older man who was five feet three inches of scatterbrain, didn’t offer an apology for not listening to his bodyguard. Instead his eyes widened at Jonathan’s appearance.

“You’re bleeding,” Martin exclaimed. He pointed to his eyebrow and then his lip.

“Don’t worry,” he hedged, temporarily forgetting he had other injuries. “It’s the jaw that hurts the worst.”

“And the bad man?” Martin didn’t try to see out into the other room. To him the hired gun was his own personal hell. An evil man who had threatened him, stalked him and attacked him. All in an attempt to exact revenge for sending his boss to prison. Jonathan remembered when the man had come into Orion Security Group’s front doors begging for protection, for a bodyguard to keep him safe. The police hadn’t believed he was being targeted, but Jonathan’s boss had.

A call Jonathan was grateful for and so was Martin.

“He won’t hurt you anymore.”

Martin’s entire body sagged in relief.

“Thank you, son. Thank you.”

Jonathan nodded, ignoring how the endearment struck a sore chord. Before he could stop it, the invisible wall that he had built for thirty-three years sprang up. He cleared his throat.

“Tell me you at least called nine-one-one,” he deadpanned. Martin’s eyes widened again, guilt written clearly across his face.

Jonathan let out a long breath.

“Call them while I go tie up our friend,” he ordered, pulling the zip ties from one of his cargo pants’ pockets. Martin nodded and for once listened.

The thug, a man around the same age as Jonathan but who had obviously had a much harder life, stayed unconscious while Jonathan tied his wrists together in front of his stomach. Just to be safe, he patted him down, revealing a wicked pocketknife and a wad of cash. There was no ID, but Jonathan didn’t need it. He felt as if he knew the man on some level. Fiercely loyal to his boss.

Hardened by life from the streets with scars that bore testament to that theory.

Determination unwavering.

Was he that different?

Would this have been Jonathan’s life had he not run into his current boss all those years ago?

Jonathan shook his head. He’d learned at a young age that what-ifs did more harm than they ever did good.

“I called them—they’re on their way and a little confused,” Martin said from the doorway, eyes staying away from the man who had tormented him for months. “But then this man called?” He held Jonathan’s phone away from him with a shrug.

The bodyguard quickly took the phone, confused, as well.

“Carmichael here.”

“Why does the client have your phone?”

Jonathan cut a grin as the voice of one of Orion’s finest—and his closest friend—filled his ear.

“Well, look who it is! Mark Tranton, back from vacation.”

A chuckle came through the airwaves.

“Well, you couldn’t expect me to pass on a free weeklong stay at a beachside bungalow, could you?” Mark exclaimed.

“The old Mark would have,” Jonathan reminded his friend. “But the new Mark is a lot more fun, so I guess it’s understandable.”

“The new Mark also has two ladies who would never let him pass on a former client’s generosity like that,” the other man added with another laugh. Jonathan had known Mark for almost a decade and was glad to see his friend happy with his girlfriend and her young daughter. “Now, why did the client answer your phone?”

Jonathan gave his fellow bodyguard a rundown of the exchange from the moment the man picked the front door lock to the knockout minutes before Mark called. He could hear the concern in Mark’s voice as he questioned Jonathan’s injuries, but Jonathan’s walls were still up. He brushed the concerns off.

“The cops should be here soon, so I need to go,” he started. “Wait, did you need something?”

“Yeah, but it can wait. Give me a call when you land in Dallas and I’ll meet you at Orion.”

Jonathan agreed to that and they ended the call.

The bodyguard slid his phone back into his pocket and took another long look at the man on the ground.

I could have been you.

* * *

TWO DAYS LATER Jonathan was cruising through Dallas, Texas, in the familiar comfort of his old, worn Range Rover. It was raining, but not enough to spoil his homecoming or Mark’s insistence that he come straight to Orion’s office. He wondered what all the fuss was about but didn’t think on it too much as he puttered his way through afternoon traffic.

Before Orion he’d been an agent with Redstone Solutions, an elite and very private security agency. With more funding than they knew what to do with—and very little care for those who couldn’t afford basic safety—he’d had contracts that had taken him all over the world. Orion, operating on a smaller financial but higher moral scale, still made him travel the nation. Through all of his travels, though, he could safely come to one concrete conclusion: traffic anywhere was horribly annoying.

There were some things he missed about his hometown, but this wasn’t one of them.

The rain let up by the time he reached the one-story building with its Orion Security Group sign blaring atop the front doors. Steam rose from the parking lot asphalt as he stretched. Unlike Mark or even Oliver, another close friend and Orion employee, Jonathan had a wide wingspan and stood taller than the two at six-three. Growing up, his long limbs had made him self-conscious—catching names like “String Bean” and “Stretch”—but being a bodyguard had taught him how to use his lean body to his advantage.

Strength and speed were two traits he trained hard to keep.

Orion’s lobby had long windows tinted to keep the Texas sun at bay. It kept the lobby cool as Jonathan passed by the desk where their cyber-techy secretary, a young woman named Jillian, sat. At her absence, he felt a sort of alertness flare. Just because she wasn’t in the lobby didn’t mean he should think something ominous was going on.

Yet, as he walked through the door and down the hallway that led to the common area for employees, Jonathan couldn’t shake the growing feeling of unease. Especially since he had passed empty offices belonging to Mark and Thomas, another Orion agent.

“Hello?” he said, rounding the corner to the grazing area, as he liked to call the open-area lounge for employees between the boss’s office and the training room. Normally it was a comfortable space to relax or play a way-too-competitive game of Ping-Pong, never too much action going on. So when he found it filled with people who yelled, “Surprise,” when he was in view, while a brightly colored banner that said Congratulations hung above him, Jonathan was wholly taken aback.

His eyes roamed over the many people bunched together. Among them he found Mark, his boss, in-house Orion employees and a few people he’d never met. He was sure he looked like a jackass standing there gaping.

“I don’t understand?” he asked when the cheers had died down.

An attractive woman with short, dark red hair laughed. She was Nikki Waters, founder and main boss at Orion, as well as one of his three closest friends.

“To be honest, this—” she motioned to the banner and then to the people next to her “—isn’t really for you, but we couldn’t resist trying to surprise you. Though, I guess it could count if we said, ‘Congratulations for a supremely well-done job of handling yourself this week!’” She held up a champagne flute—something he realized the other partygoers also held—and lifted it in the air. “To Jonathan Carmichael for an excellent job well-done!”

A chorus of “hear, hear” sounded.

“Thanks,” he said, still uncertain. “But who is this all really for?”

Nikki looked at Mark, who stepped to the side. Kelli, Mark’s girlfriend, showed herself.

“Us,” she answered before holding up her left hand. A ring graced her finger, but it was the smile on Mark’s face that really sold it.

“You’re kidding me,” Jonathan exclaimed, a smile as pure as they came pulling up the corners of his lips. “You two are getting hitched?”

They laughed in unison.

“You better believe it, best man!”

Jonathan’s happiness for his best friend pushed him forward and he gave the many-muscled man a big hug. Mark, knowing Jonathan wasn’t big on shows of affection, knew not to comment. Instead he returned it before passing the second embrace on to his future wife. The rest of the party went back to their own mingling as Jonathan took a step back to congratulate the two of them again.

“I wanted to wait to tell everyone after I’d told you, but this one here got a little too chatty.” Mark looked at Kelli, who just laughed. A woman Jonathan didn’t recognize pulled Nikki’s and her attention away, leaving Mark and Jonathan alone.

“So should we talk about your face?” the bodyguard asked. Jonathan knew how it looked—a cut above his right lip, a bandage on his eyebrow and a gnarly bruise across his jawline—but he was happy that no one else had brought it up while he was in front of everyone.

“Don’t worry, it feels worse than it looks,” he joked. “So, best man, really?” Jonathan didn’t want to keep talking about his previous job when he’d just been extended an honor that could be taken as the epitome of male friendship. Mark clapped him on the shoulder.

“Who else would I pick? Now go put your stuff away and we’ll talk bachelor party ideas.” Mark wiggled his eyebrows. Once again it reminded Jonathan of how much happier his friend had become in the past year of being with Kelli and her daughter. Life, according to him, had become more enjoyable than even he had imagined.

A mixture of longing, sadness and regret exploded in Jonathan’s chest as he set his pack down behind his desk. From the open door he could see Kelli take Mark’s hand even though the two were in separate conversations.

Looking back Jonathan would realize that it was in that moment that he made his next decision, but while he was still in the moment he would think it was when Nikki walked into the room to give him a new client file.

“I don’t want to be a field agent anymore,” he responded, surprising the two of them. “I’m missing out on life, Nikki, and I don’t want to anymore.” She took a seat. Jonathan continued, “Mark’s getting married and already has a little family. Oliver has a kid on the way. I—” He struggled to find the words.

“Want to grow roots,” she supplied.

“Yes, but I can’t do that if I’m never in one spot for long.”

“So you want a desk job,” she added.

He nodded.

Nikki Waters wasn’t an easy woman to ruffle. She pursed her lips but didn’t try to sway his decision.

“Okay,” she said instead.

“Okay?” He’d half expected her to be angry. Other than Mark he was the highest-ranking field agent.

“When I started Orion, I knew it would be a lot of work, and you’ve been an integral part in helping me carry that workload. That’s included sacrificing your personal life, I’ve noticed. If you want to stay in one place, we can make that happen.”

“So...that’s it?”

Nikki held up her index finger.

“Now, I didn’t say that.”

Chapter Two

Kate Spears sighed as she looked down at the letter covered in blood. It, like the handful of others before it, was folded and had been placed squarely on the middle of her doormat.

Her father, Deacon, a man who was made of worry more than anything else, was lagging behind her, talking on his phone. His current worry that his wife, her stepmother, was having a less than good day at work rated low on the stress totem pole. But like his ability to worry, he took pride in being a good husband. So there he paced across the sidewalk next to Kate’s mailbox, listening to his wife’s woes as his daughter tried to figure out how to handle the bloody stationery.

“If this isn’t a true case of the Mondays, I don’t know what is,” she muttered as she riffled through her larger-than-life purse. Unable to distinguish or adhere to the line between work and home, she found the pack of latex gloves within seconds and pulled one on. In another pocket of her purse she found a clean baggie. Being a scientist had its perks.

“Okay, honey, love you, too,” Deacon said, suddenly closer. Kate panicked and stuffed the note into the plastic bag along with her latex glove as quickly as she could. The bag was then stuffed into the purse. All within seconds. It made Kate momentarily feel like she’d gotten away with something. Though, in hindsight, she would realize there were few things you could get past Deacon Spears. “Are we going to pretend that I didn’t just see you shove several things into your purse?”

Kate let out another long breath. While she didn’t always leave work at work, she didn’t want to bring this conversation home. Especially not during lunch with her father.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she lied, finally opening the front door.

“And there’s the higher pitch to your voice,” he pressed, following her into the entryway of her town house. Normally she would place her purse beneath the table next to the front door, but she kept it close to her side this time. Or else her father would already be going through it.

“Can you stop analyzing me? I’m not data, you know,” she said, grinning. While Deacon owned a hardware store, Kate still insisted on cheesy jokes from her field of work. He usually laughed at them. Not now. The fake mirth didn’t dissuade Deacon’s determination. He crossed his arms over his chest and used the voice reserved only to scold his daughter. Never mind that she was twenty-nine, had a mortgage and had just completed a five-year project that could save countless lives.

“Kathryn Gaye Spears, I don’t know why you’re lying to me, but I do know you better cut the crap now.”

Kate physically shied away from the accusation by moving down the hallway and into the kitchen. Her hand clung to the strap of her purse as if the contact would somehow help it magically know it needed to hide until lunch was over.

“Dad, do you want some coffee?” she hedged. “I really need some.” Deacon followed silently and stood like a statue next to the refrigerator. From growing up with him, Kate knew it was a matter of minutes before his steely resolve broke hers, but Kate was also stubborn. She met her father’s blue-eyed stare with her own brown-eyed one and was reminded in full how the two of them looked nothing alike.

Short yet solid, Deacon had been blessed with a hereditary tan from his half-Hispanic mother, but had his father’s once blond-white hair—even though it was sparse at the crown around an almost shiny bald spot. Besides his overall look that just cried “retiring in Florida,” the fifty-six-year-old had a young, slightly rounded face. One that was partially hidden by another sun-bleached mustache he said his wife Donna thought made him look regal.

Kate, on the other hand, was the spitting image of her mother. Before her death, Cassandra Spears had been taller than her husband when she wore high heels—though she never did—and much leaner. In the same respect that was true for Kate. At five-nine, she could see over Deacon’s head with heels—though she also wasn’t a fan—and was lean but without the muscles that had been a necessary part of Cassandra’s job in law enforcement. Kate also shared the rich brown hair her mother had once sported, waving to her shoulders with thick bangs across her forehead, and her mother’s teardrop face and full lips. The only way she differed from either parent was the less than active tan that graced her skin. In the last five years Kate had resided in labs or over her computer screen during almost all waking hours. There was no time to go outside and play in the sun for her.

Though, as her father’s stare bored holes into her own, Kate thought a break for the park might be better than what was about to happen.

“It’s really not that big of a deal,” Kate finally conceded. “Can’t you just let me deal with it?”

Her father shook his head with a firm no.

Defeated, she put her purse on the counter and pulled out the baggie and its contents.

Alarmed wasn’t a strong enough word for Deacon’s reaction.

“Is that blood?” he asked, voice a mile past concerned. Careful not to rumple the letter inside, he took the bag and set it on the counter.

“It’s made to look like it, but if it’s like the last one it’s synthetic.” His eyes widened.

“The last one? You mean you’ve gotten one before this?”

Kate gave one more sigh. She’d hoped to avoid this conversation with her father until after her trip, when she was sure the letters would stop altogether. Sitting on one of the bar stools opposite him, she explained.

“Over the last few months I’ve received a handful of letters here and at the office,” she admitted. “Only this one and the last one were covered in what looks like human blood, but we tested and confirmed it to be fake. Though, I still wouldn’t touch that without gloves on.” She pulled another set out of her purse and passed them to her father—a man curious enough to want to pull the letter out. Silently he slipped them on and did just that. Kate quickly put down a paper towel so the blood—fake or not—wouldn’t touch the granite.

“It’s covered front and back with writing,” he observed, squinting at the handwritten letters. It was identical to all of the other notes she’d received. “But it’s only one word, repeated. Zastavit.” He kept saying the word, as if tasting it to figure out its root.

“I think it’s Czech,” she said after a moment.

“Are you sure?”

She shrugged. “No, but I can guarantee it means ‘stop.’”

His eyebrows rose in question.

She held up her index finger and made a quick trip to her bedroom. There she picked up a small box and brought it back to her father. Sitting back down, she waited for him to open it and extract the bundle of letters.

“Only a handful of letters? How many hands are you talking about in this scenario?” The letters numbered eighteen in total. Each had a single word repeated over the paper’s entirety.

“They are all in different languages, but they all roughly translate to the word stop,” she explained. “Plus, the first one was in English. I suppose to help me out just in case I didn’t understand...or, you know, use a translator or the internet.”

“Stop...stop what?” Realization lit his features before Kate had time to answer. “Your research.”

She shrugged. “I suppose so. That’s the only thing I really have going on in my life. Unless they want me to stop drinking coffee. Which, I’ll be frank, isn’t going to happen anytime soon.”

“Dammit, Kate!” Her father slammed his free hand down on the counter, making her jump. “Stop joking about this!” He waved the note closest to him—the Hungarian one—in the air. “These are threats, not some love letters. Someone obviously invested a lot of thought and time into these.”

“But they aren’t threats, Dad,” she insisted. “They are simply eclectic suggestions. No threat of harm has been given in any of them.”

“But they’ve been delivered to your home, Kate!”