Dangerous Protector (Aegis Group Book 5) (2 page)

2.

Marco grimaced at the
front of Cooter’s Chop Shop Saloon. Of course his cousin would be in a classy place like this. The fucker.

If Danny weren’t his cousin, if his mother hadn’t specifically asked Marco to make sure her son was okay, this was the last place he’d be. Danny couldn’t stay out of trouble to save his life, and that was the problem. Still, Danny was family and Marco couldn’t turn his back on his cousin, even if he was a stupid kid.

He swung his leg off the Harley and tried to wipe the scowl off his face.

His phone buzzed up a storm. He glanced at it, but the number was unknown.

Ghost was always calling him from another burner bounced through various satellites.

Shit.

If Ghost was calling him, it was probably important, but he was already here to handle whatever shit-storm Danny had started in the point-zero-one seconds he’d been out of prison.

“Hey, make it quick,” Marco said into the phone. He peered through the grimy front windows, the scent of hash in the air. Great. Danny was probably high.

“Bad time?” The husky feminine tones rooted Marco to the spot.

“Who is this?” He knew, but he had to ask all the same.

“Fiona. We met at the bar…”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Fucking great time for Danny to screw stuff up. His mark was
calling him
. He couldn’t get a better opening if he’d asked Santa for it.

“Bad time?” Fiona’s voice was different. More relaxed, languid. “You sound like you’re out.”

“Yeah, I’ve got to scrape my shit-for-brains cousin off the floor before he gets himself in trouble again.”

“Really bad time, then—”

Her voice was cut off by the rev of a motorcycle. Marco plugged his ear and waited for her to continue.

“Where are you?”

“Some bar called Cooter’s Saloon. Real classy place.”

“I might have to go sometime.”

“Sweetheart, this is not the kind of place you want to be.” Hell, he didn’t even want to be here, and Marco had pretty low standards. “I’ve got your number, now. I can show you a good time later if you like.”

“Have fun with your cousin.”

“Hey—”

Fiona hung up on him. He scowled at the phone screen.

He had her number now, and she’d initiated contact, both at the bar and now. The hook was set. So why was he this irritated by the hang-up?

She hadn’t even asked what his name was.

He was still a stranger to her.

Wasn’t the woman concerned about her safety?

A cut-off yell arrested his attention.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered and pocketed the phone.

He’d worry about Fiona later. Right now he needed to kick Danny’s ass into next week.

Marco pushed into the bar and squinted through the haze of cigarette and pot smoke. The inside was crowded with people at high tables, around the bar and pool tables. Just the kind of place his cousin needed to be after being released for drug possession. Great. If he got caught here, it would break his mother’s heart and somehow it’d be Marco’s fault.

He waded through the crowd, heading toward the pool tables.

Danny was a rail-thin, short kid who knew how to pull the big-eyed-pitiful-me act off to the point he hustled the hustlers.

Sure enough, Danny was a couple tables back, shaking his head, while a guy twice his size slapped his shoulders.

Marco hung back against the wall.

Danny had known Marco was coming to pick him up. So why hadn’t he called? What sort of game was Danny running? Who did he owe money to?

“Marco.”

Fuck.

Marco turned toward the voice.

Well, that answered every damn question.

“Johnny.” Marco held out his hand.

Johnny “The Indian” Pahe.

If Johnny had a drop of Native American blood in him, then Marco was a green-skinned, antennae-sporting alien.

They’d all grown up in the same area surrounding Moab, Utah, which was how Danny and his older brother got involved with Johnny and his guys. The ironic thing was, Marco’s family were all Navajo. When John started wearing the ridiculous get-up a couple years ago, Marco had wanted so badly to bust his ass. But then the shit with Danny’s older brother happened and touching Johnny meant risking the investigation.

“Haven’t seen you around.” Marco crossed his arms across his chest and turned toward Danny. What the hell was the kid thinking? Johnny was bad news of the drugs and hard time kind. He smiled too much, but it was the smile of a snake in the grass ready to bite.

“Last I heard you were in the Navy.” Johnny nodded toward Danny. “Look at the kid go.”

Danny had his tongue stuck out one side of his mouth, lining up a shot. He sank balls, lined up another shot, and systematically cleaned the table.

“He working for you?” Marco asked. There was no sense in beating around the bush.

“Danny? No, he doesn’t work for anyone.” Johnny rocked forward on one foot.

He had on one of those beaded chest plates that lay over his chest under a plaid shirt. The Indian name was all for show. A street name. He’d peddled pot back in school, mixing it with over the counter drugs and called it the Indian Smoke Stick. Landed a dozen kids in the ER. Johnny hadn’t cared. So long as he made a buck.

Marco’s gaze skipped over the onlookers. Johnny’s people.

Chances were, Johnny had set up here some weeks ago, planting a few guys to brag about his product, peddle a few drugs. They’d move through before the local dealers got wind of them, but not before Danny bled as many dry as he could.

The odds were also stacked where Danny was concerned. Marco didn’t doubt his cousin sold what he could, but he wasn’t stupid. He was a smart, slick kid, and he knew better than to get caught. Which meant, as the low man on the pole, he’d taken the fall for someone in Johnny’s crew.

Marco liked this gig a lot better when he was just picking his cousin up from prison.

Danny’s game finished in a two-ball flourish. He pumped his fist while his opponent muttered something to his buddies.

Marco closed the distance, circling the pool table and blocking off Danny’s escape.

“Cous’.” Danny blinked up at him.

“Hey—kid, I’m not done.” Danny’s opponent stepped forward.

“Move, man.” Danny shoved at Marco’s chest.

“How much he take you for?” Marco asked without looking away from his cousin.

“Two hundred. The kid’s a hustler.”

Marco dug into his pocket, peeled off a couple of twenties and laid them on the table.

“Danny, we need to talk.”

Danny shoved his hands into his pocket, head down, skulking like the kid he was. Marco stepped back, giving him a way out, and followed in the kid’s wake around to the rear exit and out into an alley lined with more bikes. The sky was just beginning to dim, the air turning cool, the trees over the mountains turning colors.

“What do you want?” Danny stuck out his lower lip, always the petulant child.

“I want you to tell your mother you aren’t coming home.” Marco held out his phone.

“I ain’t calling her, man.” Danny flinched away from the phone.

“You are the one who agreed to me bringing you home, so you need to tell her. You’re not coming home, are you? You never meant to leave Denver.”

“I can’t. My parole officer—”

“They’d let you go home, but you don’t want to. Because your crew is here? Johnny and the others? You’re with them now, aren’t you?” Marco stepped in close, so close he could see the tiny red veins in Danny’s eyes. “Aren’t you?”

Danny just shook his head.

Marco wanted to throttle the kid. Pack him up, force him to go home.

“How long ago did we put Daniel in the ground? Hm?” Marco had watched this same routine, only it’d been Marco’s dad picking up Danny’s older brother. “How long has your brother been dead?”

“I’m not using. I’m not stupid.” Danny glared back.

“No, you’re just hustling and working for the same guy who probably sold Daniel his drugs.”

“Yeah, well, my brother was a dumbass, wasn’t he? He got what he deserved.”

“What do you deserve, Danny? Or is it D-Dawg now? Wasn’t that what your mom said they were calling you? Shit.”

“Man, I’m working for my money.”

“You’re nineteen, Danny. You’re old enough to fuck up the rest of your life, and no one can save you from it. I’ll take you home right now. I’ve got your truck out of the impound, I’ll fill the gas tank and follow you all the way home, but you have to leave right now.”

“Fuck you. That’s my truck.”

“No.” Marco shook his head. “It’s still in my dad’s name.”

“Man, I don’t need you.”

Danny pushed past Marco, and it took everything in him to not snatch the kid back.

Watching Daniel kill himself had been bad, but they’d done everything they could. Interventions. Family sit-downs. Hell, Marco had tied Daniel up in the barn once to get him to come down off his high and keep from hurting himself, but nothing worked. This time…this time they had to let Danny hit rock bottom. Realize what he was doing. And then…maybe then he’d change. But they couldn’t force it.

Marco clenched his hands into fists, closed his eyes and slowly exhaled.

He couldn’t force Danny to choose a better life. It was in the kid’s hands now.

The bar was clogged full of more people than when he’d left. Danny and the rest of his crew were gone.

Marco strode across the bar, but he only made it a dozen or so paces before he stopped in his tracks.

A woman in tiny black shorts and a red bustier with some sort of skirt-tail-thing slammed back a shot at the bar. Some of the baddest motherfuckers were clustered around her. He didn’t need more than a glance at their tattoos to place them in the worst gangs possible.

She was here.

Of course she was here.

It was just the way his damn night was going.

Scott jabbed at the
keyboard, anger simmering low in his stomach.

How much longer was he going to get jerked around like this? He’d done his part, now the corporate goons were supposed to back off. He’d let the coast clear and then—then Brat would be his to deal with. Eliminate. Finally!

Her name was Fiona now.

Scott only remembered her handle.

b4dbr47.

BadBrat in non-leet speak.

Everyone had called her Brat back then. She’d been one of the lemmings, the idealistic children staged to take the fall.

Instead, she’d taken them down.

The bitch.

It’d taken a long time to find her after he’d emerged. Two years in hiding, watching his back, wondering if the feds were coming after him. Two years for her to burrow into the shithole that was this new life.

Did she even hack anymore?

Scott couldn’t find Brat’s trail anywhere.

He’d only found her again by chance. Because that stupid ass who recruited her had a thing for leggy teenage girls and hadn’t been shy about sharing her pictures with the rest of them. Scott had that much to go off. He’d tracked her from one alias to another, always years behind her, but he was patient. By his estimation, she’d been moved a couple times until she landed here. In Denver. Where she led a quiet little existence.

Scott had found her because of a clerical error. The wrong form sent to the wrong address. Once he had her trail, it’d still taken months of leg work to find her, and months more to land a suitable fall gig while he got this identity in order.

His revenge would be so sweet. And Good Global would get the blame for her death.

It would serve his boss, Lila, right for all the yanking him around.

The gig was supposed to be over. Done with. He should be retreating, regrouping and waiting for the perfect moment to swoop in when Brat would be the least aware. He’d have her then. Maybe he wouldn’t shoot her immediately. Maybe he’d make her suffer, just as he had for years in squalor and filth, watching over his shoulder.

His work cell rang. The one for the job.

Scott scowled at it.

What the fuck did they want now?

“Yes?” He didn’t bother with pleasantries. They all knew what was happening.

“We need the equipment.” The voice on the other end of the line was clipped. Professional. Fucking Lila.

“Well, too bad. We talked about this. That shit is gone. I’m not getting it back.”

“You will get it back.”

“Or else?”

“It’s come to our knowledge that there are people who’d like to find you…”

Scott swallowed.

There were a lot of people who wanted to find him. She’d have to be more specific. Were they looking for Scott? Or Nova? She only knew the first name, but he still had plenty of enemies. Back in the day, when they’d had their ring, he and the guys had taken thousands, maybe even millions between them. His gigs were smaller now, but people still didn’t like it when you took their money.