Page 30 of A Bride for the Bodyguard

Rich’s hand dives into his pocket. “They are now,” he replies, pulling out a black earpiece and fitting it into position with a click.

“Good. Expand the search quietly. We need more eyes, but no alarms—not yet.” My command is sharp, calculated. “I’ll start with the perimeter, move towards the beach. You take the interior, storage rooms, service areas.”

Rich nods once. “Got it.”

“And Rich,” I pause, locking eyes with him. “Make it fast. If they’re in trouble, every minute could count. Stay sharp and loop me in the second you find anything.”

The reception hall blurs into a mere backdrop as I weave through clusters of guests, their laughter and clinking glasses a world away from the urgency gripping my chest.

As I slip out a side door, the cool night air hits me, carrying the salty tang of the sea. The sound of waves crashing against the shore should be calming, but it’s far from it tonight. It’s just another place she could be, another shadow that might hide threats.

My feet find the rhythm of patrol, my gaze sweeping over the darkened edges of the venue with precision. But it’s not just duty that propels me forward—it’s the memory of Marlie’s smile, the sound of her laugh, the way she looks at me when she thinks I’m not paying attention. I pick up the pace, sand giving way beneath my boots as I scan the darkness.

Suddenly, my earpiece crackles again.

“Jack, I think I’ve got something,” Rich says. “There’s a boat prepped to leave. Looks like they’re in a hurry, could be our play.”

Electricity surges through me. “Where?” My hand is already reaching for my gun holstered under my jacket.

“West dock, pier seven. You can’t miss it.”

“Keep eyes on it. Don’t engage.” The commands are rote; the caution, second nature. But beneath it all is a wild beat, the rhythm of possibility that this could lead me to Marlie, to Diego.

“Copy that,” Rich replies, and I’m moving.

Two minutes later, the dock materializes before me. The lighthouse, although non-functional now, stands like a solitary sentry on its own little island just off the coast of Barton Beach. The docks beneath it gleam with an unnatural newness that doesn’t sit right. Too new, I realize.

I squint down towards the water’s edge and spot two shadowy figures moving around. As I’m watching them, Rich comes up next to me.

“Hang on... is that...” Rich starts to whisper, but I finish his sentence for him.

“George Shaw and his wife, Patricia,” I confirm quietly. Recognition dawns in Rich’s eyes.

“The landlord?” he asks.

I nod grimly. “It all makes sense now,” I explain to him. “The leak wasn’t from Diego’s security team. It was that fucking clown.”

Rich looks at me in disbelief as he processes this revelation. “You think George has been working for Victor this whole time?”

“Definitely,” I reply. “He probably got suspicious when I moved back here with Marlie.” A memory flashes through my mind: Patricia grilling Marlie with a million pointed questions when we first met her. Now it all adds up.

Rich gives a low whistle of surprise. “So what’s the plan?”

“I’m going in.” My gaze locks onto George and Patricia who are busy loading items into a sleek boat bobbing gently by the dockside under the moonlight’s glow. “Cover for me.”

We slink down towards the dock, our footsteps swallowed by the night until we’re right behind George and Patricia.

Stepping up silently behind George, I press my gun firmly into his back. Then leaning in close enough to feel his sudden tension ripple through him, I growl into his ear. “Where is my wife?”

George sneers as he turns around slowly. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Jack Barton. Figured you would show up.”

The man before me is a far cry from the befuddled elder I initially encountered. Gone is the harmless guise, replaced by the icy precision of a narcotics peddler.

“Hey, let me go!” Patricia’s voice pierces the air. I turn my head to the source of the commotion.

“Easy there,” Rich interjects, his hands firmly gripping Patricia’s shoulders to hold her back. I can’t help but notice the careful restraint in his grip. Despite everything, despite her connection to a lowlife like George, I know Rich would never harm a woman. But Patricia’s interference isn’t something we can afford right now, not when we’re this close to getting Marlie out of this mess.

“Me and Patricia had a good thing going with Victor,” George continues, his voice carrying a bitter edge. “And then that fucking snitch Diego had to go run his mouth to the DEA. And then you saunter into, pretending to be married to that hot little whor?—..”

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