Her Marine Bodyguard (7 page)

How long had it lasted? She didn’t know, and the doctors had run a rape kit. Humiliation slithered through her, and she shook her head. Her mind kept jerking back to the moment the car started, and her skin crawled.

“Anything he may have said. It could be one word?” Foster pressed, and the quaking in Shannon’s hands turned into shivering all over. She folded her arms. Another negative response. “Miss Fabray, I understand this is hard. But you’re really close to it right now, little details can fade in a day or two. Maybe you smelled something? On him? In the car? You said it was a four-door, right?”

“Yes. But I don’t know anything else. It was a car, it had doors. He was a man. He grabbed me. I woke up over his shoulder and my wrists were tied with one of those plastic zip cords. He dumped me in the backseat hard enough that I bounced and then he slammed the door. The rain was coming down, and there was thunder and lightning, and he started the engine…all I wanted to do was get away.”

The detective nodded. “Let’s go back to before the lights went out. What did you do?”

“I took a shower. I’d been sculpting, working on a new piece. I was tired and filthy. I wanted to go take a shower, and Katrina said she’d grill some steaks and we could eat and then I could sleep.” It had been a normal day—as normal as her days had been since the bodyguard moved in.

“What about the rest of your day? Anyone come by? Any new letters?”

“No.” She rubbed her face. “I would have told you if I received any. Is this the same person?”

“We’re going to investigate, and hopefully, Miss Bates can give us more information when she wakes up. Until then, let’s go back over this again….”

Oh, God. She did not want to do this again. “I don’t know anything else. They did something with my fingernails—” Not that she had any. She didn’t remember touching his skin, only the feeling of his hand on her mouth. The way he squeezed her and then the panic followed by nothingness until the rain struck her outside.

She hated not remembering.

“I understand this is difficult….” But Detective Foster trailed off, and Shannon glanced up to find Luke’s hand raised.

“Enough. She told you what she remembers. James can talk to her tomorrow or the day after or whenever she is ready, and see if she can remember more. But we’re done here. We’re taking her home.”

“Not to the loft. I’ve got my crime scene techs there right now.”

Shannon would throw up again. All those people all over her place—and that man. And Katrina’s blood.

“We’re taking her to Allen.” Luke held out a card. “You want to talk to her, call me first.”

“Or me,” Helena said, speaking for the first time. “I also want copies of the reports you have on those letters and a statement regarding the investigation.”

Foster agreed with them, and Shannon faded out of the conversation. Nothing made sense. The break-in, the letters, and tonight…tonight the man had shot Katrina.

“Shannon.” Luke knelt next to her seat. “This is going to be okay, sweetheart. We’re taking you back to Mike’s Place. You’ll stay with Rebecca and I tonight.”

She’d had a bodyguard at her loft, and she’d been shot. What if…? “No, if the guy comes back, I don’t want you or Rebecca to be hurt.”

One hand on the table and the other on the arm of her chair, he was careful not to touch her, but his expression didn’t soften. “I’ve got guys locking the campus down, and we’re doubling security. I’ve also asked anyone who isn’t living on campus currently to come in and rotate a shift. You’re going to be surrounded by Marines, sweetheart. No one is going to touch you again. Okay?”

It sounded so good.

“Now, is there anything we can get you before we go?”

Brody.

She wanted Brody. But she couldn’t have him.

“
It’s Shannon, she was attacked
…”

From the moment Luke said the words, anger pooled in the pit of Brody’s belly before rising and growing caustic in the back of his throat. Not only had she been attacked, but someone had tried to kidnap her and he’d shot another woman in the process. The woman survived, but she would be in the hospital for the foreseeable future. Some primal part of Brody had shut down his emotional responses, dug in, and crouched to wait as the rest of him listened to Luke’s assessment.

Shannon’s loft a crime scene. They’d taken her back to Mike’s Place. Most of Brody’s former unit worked or lived at the veteran’s rehabilitation center. The sprawling complex had grown in the three years since it had opened and continued to expand. He’d joked once about how it had the feel of living on a base—it also had the security of one. Luke said he’d called in all available men, they had a rotating guard working and constant monitoring.

Whoever the fucktard was that had gone after Shannon wouldn’t get near her again. The anger boiling in his belly began to sizzle beneath the ice of his control. The cops, it seemed, had no leads.

And there was more.

Brody had to stand in Coms, surrounded by others doing their jobs, and keep his expression clean of reaction as Luke detailed Shannon’s hotel break-in, the letters, the assessment from the cops—at least the detective in charge of her case was a former Marine even if Brody didn’t recognize the name—and another summation of the attempted kidnapping. As if aware Brody needed to know, he repeated Shannon’s condition—fine physically, aside from bumps, bruises, and scrapes she’d gotten while throwing herself out of a moving car.

For fuck’s sake
…. Brody clenched his fist and resisted the urge to slam it against the wall. Physically fine she might be, but what about emotionally and mentally? She’d had issues for years, thanks to some jackass raping her in college. Emotional wounds had sealed the infection in with thick scar tissue.

She’d started to heal, finally. And now this.

“Is she there now?” The first question he allowed himself to ask.

“She’s asleep,” Luke said. Of course. It was mid-day in Afghanistan and that meant it was still the middle of the night in Dallas. “James had one of the doctors prescribe something for her. She seemed to be doing okay until we got back here.”

Seemed to be translated to
not at all
. Poise and control had driven Shannon on a date with a stranger two years before. The need to reclaim her desire and control her passion being fuel for the fire. Yes, she’d said it had to do with her art, but beneath it all, she was a lonely, hurt woman who wanted to be more. Brody always counted himself fucking fortunate to be the man she’d met. She’d needed
him
, and he’d given her what she needed.

Leaving her had been hard, they’d had a few days in Italy and a few Skype calls to tide him over. She sent him letters—real honest-to-God letters—and emails, always letting him know he had someone waiting. For the first time since he’d enlisted, someone at home gave two shits if he made it back or not.

And the reality of it was, he’d been marking the time till he went home to her permanently.

“Brody,” Luke’s voice reminded him they were still on the phone. “We’ve got this.”

No. They really didn’t. “Thank you, sir.” But he couldn’t comment, not when he could be overheard. What he needed were his orders, so he could get the fuck out of the armpit of hell and home—to her, where he belonged.

His former captain went quiet for a long moment then asked, “Your orders come in yet?”

“No.” No, he still waited. It could be an hour or a month. Though scuttlebutt suggested the base commander had a mission for his team that could send them back out.

“Hang in there, you’ll be Stateside soon. Till then, we’ve got your girl, and we’re going to keep her safe.” What he didn’t say was the underlying order in those words. Trust him. Trust his brothers to take care of his girl. They could keep her safe.

He did trust them to protect her—physically. But she’d hide the rest from them. It was what she did.
She had to have been scared out of her mind
….

The watch commander entered the room, and he gave Brody an assessing look. Time to get off the phone. “Keep me in the loop, Luke.”

“I will.” Without much else to say, they disconnected the call. Leaving Coms, he headed for the base commander’s office. Willis was a good man and a tough colonel. He’d been with the first boots on the ground in the first Iraq War and the second, and in Afghanistan nearly as long as the first two assignments put together.

Twenty minutes of cooling his heels later, he had his answer. No orders were forthcoming, and no word on when they might be. Ukrainian politics were hot. Crimea was hot. Africa was always fucking hot. Now, the Far East might also be heating up. Facts were facts.

His orders were coming, but where they were sending him…remained open for debate.

Home.

Shannon needed him at home. He needed to be at home.
Fuck
…. Brody had too many years of training and practice at controlling his expression and body language. He bypassed his quarters and headed for the gym. No fancy equipment, but weight training kept him in shape and sane when he had nothing else to do. Guard duty would be fucking preferable to the waiting he’d engaged in since typing up his last report.

A dozen men were in the various stages of working out. Several paused to salute, and he waved them off. Not bothering to change, he headed straight toward Jennings and Royce. The pair of sergeants spotted him and set their weights aside to hit attention before he arrived.

“At ease,” he said, keeping his voice low and conversational. The chance to be overheard existed, but he needed their specialized skills, and they had a better chance of providing him with what he needed out in the open rather than behind closed doors. “Explain to me the swiftest way out country.”

“Sir?” Royce reached for the pair of thirty-pounders he’d been using for biceps curls and resumed his routine, but his attention was on Brody.

“I was clear with the order.”

He’d led the fast response team for nearly two years. His ability to make decisions on the fly, task resources, implement and see them carried out were part of why he was an effective leader. Every member of his team served a similar purpose. Under heavy fire, questioning a decision could get the whole team killed. They were a well-oiled machine, and he’d never had a problem trusting his life—now his career—to these men.

Jennings claimed a pair of weights and joined Royce with a set of curls. “Package size, sir?”

“About six foot two, two hundred and ten pounds.” The sergeants had racked up a tidy sum with a sideline business of bringing in special order supplies for the men—everything from cigarettes to porn. He’d even heard a rumor about bacon bits at one point. They didn’t deal in illegal substances—although pork products were not shipped in by the military in adherence to local laws. They’d also helped ensure packages were sent back to the states, speedier than they might have made it otherwise. All of it tap-danced on the letter of the law, but nothing that would get them more than a restriction in privileges.

And to his knowledge, they’d never allowed it to interfere with their assignments. If he needed water in the middle of the desert, these were the two he would go to.

Hell, they were the two he’d used. The two men glanced at each other and continued to pump iron. Biceps curls finished, they switched to hammer presses. What few but those who’d worked closely with Jennings and Royce realized were the two men rarely communicated aloud. They could convey a wealth of information via a simple glance the other understood.

“Tricky,” Jennings said before setting his weights back on the stack. “But not impossible. What’s our operational time frame?”

Until that moment, he hadn’t realized how committed to the choice he’d become. Shannon needed him Stateside. His orders weren’t forthcoming. “As soon as possible.”

Neither man commented on the illegality of his choice or the violation of orders. The moment he stepped foot outside the gates, he would be AWOL. At the very least, he would receive disciplinary action and, at worst, a full-blown court martial that might land him in prison.

All acceptable risks as long as he completed his mission and Shannon was safe.

Royce put away his own weights and picked up a towel to sling around his neck. “Documentation?”

“Enough to get me out of here.” Here being Afghanistan. Kabul was the closest civilian airport. He certainly couldn’t use military transport…could he?

The men exchanged another long, silent exchange and then Jennings nodded curtly. “Two hours. One bag. Northeast gate.”

Trusting his men, he nodded. They straightened with a salute, and he returned the same then left them to head to his quarters. He didn’t need much, so the one-bag requirement wouldn’t be a problem.

Some fifteen hours later, Brody boarded a plane in Paris that would carry him directly to Dallas. The flights cost a small fortune, but he had a hell of a lot of money in the bank he’d never used. Years of not owning a house or needing to buy a vehicle, and eating on military dime had left him with a nice nest egg. Now was as good to use the cash. Jennings and Royce had given him papers allowing him to board a flight from Kabul to Istanbul via a Turkish airline; from there he boarded Air France to Paris. Using his military ID would have gotten him cheaper seats and made tracking him easier, so he simply booked it as a civilian.

The minute he’d exited Camp Leatherneck aboard a supply truck carrying him Kabul, he’d been AWOL. Being out of uniform was the least of his worries. Royce and Jennings promised to cover him for as long as possible. Neither man needed to do it, he didn’t expect it, and ordered them not to compromise their own careers.

After passing his ticket and passport to the boarding agent, he waited while she scanned the first and gave a bored glance at the second. Security had tightened at all airports since 9/11, but she was the last stage before boarding a flight. He felt it a safe bet if a person had reached this point, they’d already been vetted by security.

On board, he put his bag in an overhead compartment and took his seat. Once the last passenger boarded and the compartment secured, the flight was only half full. Brody sat alone in his row. That suited him fine.