The Protector (16 page)

“Let’s move.” He gestured downhill.
“One more mile back to the cabin.
Then we’ll eat breakfast.”

Taking off at an easy lope, he left her scrounging for the strength to hurry after him. At least gravity was on their side now.
 

As she chased his shadow, his chilling words echoed in her head.
Stop and feel, and you’ll end up dead.

Was that what had happened to Ike? Had he learned to shut off his emotions to survive? That would explain why he rarely smiled; why he behaved like he was more machine than man.

Yet there was wisdom in his advice. God forbid she should come face to face with terrorists again, but if she did, thinking through her fear might be the only thing that saved her.

On the other hand, what was the point of living, if you could no longer feel?

Chapter Eight

Maybe training
Eryn
wasn’t such a good idea, Ike considered.
 

He was used to training men. There were no women on the SEAL Teams. He hadn’t had a woman enroll in his survival and security course yet, either. If he didn’t know better, he’d have guessed that the double X-chromosome interfered with accuracy.
Eryn
had fired twenty-five rounds at the plywood silhouette standing fifty feet away, and she still hadn’t hit it.
 

How could she be Stanley’s daughter and be such a miserable shot? Jesus, at this rate, she’d need to cart
around a
cannon and be close enough to shake the enemy’s hand in order to shoot him!

Maybe if they’d gotten an earlier start today. But their four-course brunch, followed by a nap for
Eryn
, had taken up most of the morning. If she could shoot like she cooked they’d be in business, but obviously she couldn’t. The sky was starting to mellow, and the trees were casting long shadows, and she was still off by a country mile. “We’ll try again tomorrow,” he suggested.

“Are you thinking I can’t do this?”
Eryn
whirled to face him. As he ducked and broke right, she sheepishly pointed the Glock at the ground. “Sorry.” Her mouth drooped with defeat.

Determined to end things on a positive note, Ike heaved a sigh. Damn it, he was going to have to put his arms around her.

Easy,
he ordered his libido as he drew her back around.
 

Her target was one of a dozen plywood silhouettes studding a clearing of wildflowers—an area known to his trainees as The Range. “Loosen up,” he said, feeling tension in her shoulders. “Let me see your grip.”
 

No wonder she kept missing. “That’s not what I showed you. Slide your right hand higher. Your forefinger needs to rest along the frame—like that, thumbs crossed. Now think of pushing with the right hand, pulling with the left. Got it?”

“I think so.”
 

“Go ahead and aim.” She smelled like peaches, with sunshine and woman thrown in to distract him. He tried holding his breath.
  

“Like this?”

What the hell was she aiming at? “Are you using the sights on the pistol?”
 

“I’m pointing at the target!”
 

Bracing himself for contact, he edged closer. “Remember your two sights. Keep your target in both of them, but your focus is on the V-post.”

“Oh.” Her tone made it clear she’d forgotten that part.
 

The nose of the gun wavered. Up. Down.
Left.
Right.
Suddenly, she froze. “I’ve got it!”
  

“Hold it there.” He didn’t want her to miss. Gritting his teeth against the feel of her soft ass against his thighs, he moved closer till her back was molded to his front. Then he put his arms around her, cupping her hands to steady them. They were touching from shoulder to toe, and it felt like heaven.
 

“Breathe,” he said, as much to himself as to her, and she exhaled. “Now squeeze.”

Crack!
The bullet ripped into the target. At the same time, the recoil pushed her up against him. It was all he could do to disguise his burgeoning erection.
   

“That’s a kill,” he said, backing away swiftly, but even five feet away, he could still feel her, smell her.
 

To his puzzlement, she just stared at the target with her shoulders slumped.
  

Ike edged around her to peek at her reaction, and her eyes, identical in color to the violets in the grass, shifted in his direction. “That made me think of
Itzak
,” she admitted sadly.

He was startled to find his hand in her hair, smoothing it where it bumped up over the ear muffs. “Think of the one who killed him next time,” he suggested, snatching his hand back. “Try again, by yourself this time.”

Giving her room, he watched her reconsider her target. As her face hardened and her eyes narrowed, he decided maybe she had some of Stanley in her, after all.
 
Respect mingled with pity and roiled inside of him, heating to a furious boil. If it were up to him, the fuckers plotting her death would meet a premature and grisly end.
 

His gaze dropped to where the snug velour sweat suit clung to her amazing curves.
 
Protecting her hadn’t proven all that rough. She hadn’t complained about the lack of creature comforts. She cooked; she kept the house neat. For the most part, she left him alone when she wasn’t trying to crawl into his head. He was starting to enjoy her company.

And that in itself was dangerous. He needed to minimize her effect on him, somehow. Maybe a trip to Elkton was in order. He could look for the RV he’d seen yesterday—ascertain that it wasn’t the FBI’s RV. He could stop in at the local pub and ask TJ if he’d seen any strangers in suits. Hook up with TJ’s sister for a quick coupling.
 
That might just take the edge off his lust.
       

Only who would protect
Eryn
while he did all that? There wasn’t anyone he trusted to look after her. Bottom line, her safety mattered more than this hankering inside him.
 

Crack! Thunk!
The sound of her bullet hitting its mark brought him sharply to the present.

“I did it!” She remembered to engage the safety before rushing at him with her arms out flung.

There was no avoiding her effusive embrace. “All by
myself
!” she cried, throwing her arms around him. Her soft breasts were crushed against his chest, her warm breath sighed against his neck. Her beautiful face seemed lit from the inside out, like a lantern.
    

He forced himself to study the target. “Nice job.” Fighting to keep his hands from palming her ass, he gently disengaged himself. “Do it two more times, and we’ll call it a day.”

**

The FBI interview with the Sheriff’s nephew took place at 9 P.M., just outside of the security office at
Massanutten
Resort. Children scrambled on the playground equipment lit up by halogen lamps. Fruit bats darted in the darkening sky. Dwayne Barnes, heavily bearded and built like a lumberjack, jumped out of his skin as the three agents surrounded him the minute he stepped from his place of work. The look of dread on his face told Jackson he’d been expecting this moment.
    

“Dwayne Barnes?”
Caine
flashed his badge. “Brad
Caine
, FBI. Special Agents Maddox and
Ringo
,” he added introducing his companions. “We’d like a word with you.”
Caine
gestured to the solitary RV parked on the far end of the lot, and Dwayne gave a reluctant nod.

Inside the Mobile Command Center, they handed him a Diet Coke, a Ho-Ho pastry, and kicked off the interview with the usual questions tailored to put the mountain man at ease, but he was so enamored with the amenities that came with the RV that he couldn’t stop staring at them.

“Ya’ll have two refrigerators,” he marveled.

“That’s a beverage bar,”
Caine
said shortly. “What can you tell us about Isaac Calhoun?”
 

Dwayne lowered his half-eaten snack cake.
“Who?
Oh, you mean, LT.”
 

Caine’s
upper lip curled. “Still calls himself Lieutenant, does he?”

“Well, no. But folks call him that ‘cause of his military bearing.” Dwayne shrugged. “What do you want to know?”

“How do you know him?”

“Took ITC Survival and Security Training last fall.”
 

“What was that like?”

Dwayne shrugged. “Tough.
Learned a lot.
Got recertified.”
 

A sheaf of papers hit the table in front of him, making him jump.
 

“What’s this?” Dwayne frowned down at the first page. “Why’s my name on this?”
 

“This is the Class 1 misdemeanor you were charged with several years back, Mr. Barnes,” said
Caine
. “The one your uncle kept secret from your employer? I wonder how they’d react to learning that you lied to them all this time. You think they’d let you keep your job here?”

Dwayne Barnes visibly swallowed.
 

“You wouldn’t want them knowing you grew and sold your own marijuana, would you?”
  

A long moment passed before the man finally buckled.
“No, sir.”
 

“That’s the spirit,”
Caine
continued. “Now, why don’t you start by telling us everything you know about LT?”

Two hours later, they sent the mountain man on his way. While
Caine
disappeared into the sound room to update their supervisor at the Washington Field Office, Jackson mulled over the information Dwayne had shared with them. None of it made Ike Calhoun look like a man you wanted to tangle with. When
Caine
finally emerged, Jackson took one look at the smirk on his face and his stomach fell.
 

“The SAC says we need to take her back,” the supervisor announced, cheerily. “He doesn’t think our client is safe with this former sniper, and neither do I.”

“Sir,” Jackson protested, “
there’s
nothing in Calhoun’s record to suggest he’s a menace.”
   

“You’re wrong, Rookie. There’s a reason his men wound up dead on that mountain in Afghanistan. The circumstances are all hush, hush, but the rumor is he got them all killed.”

“Since when do we base our decisions on rumor?” Jackson asked, his temperature rising.
   

“Look at the facts, Maddox.”
Caine’s
syllables grew clipped. “The man is a trained killer. He’s offed eighteen terrorists and, according to Dwayne Barnes, he has enough weapons on his property to start World War Three. That, in my opinion, makes him dangerous.”

Jackson threw up his hands. “That’s exactly why McClellan chose him to protect his daughter. Why can’t we just respect his wishes and get back to the business of catching terrorists?”

“Why can’t you just shut the fuck up and do as you’re told?”
  

Ringo
stared at the Coke in his hand like he’d never seen one like it.
  

“There’s no call for profanity, sir,” Jackson countered, holding
Caine’s
gaze without flinching. “We should be able to discuss this like professionals.”